Ewan Lawrie spent 23 years in the Royal Air Force, 10 years

in Cold War Berlin and 12 years flying over the rather

warmer conflicts that followed. He began writing during long
boring flights over desert countries, and what started as a
way of killing time soon developed into a passion.

Nowadays he spends his time in the south of Spain, writing

and teaching English to Andalucians and other hispano-
phones. Though he has had stories and poetry published in
several anthologies, Gibbous House is his first novel.
Gibbous House

Ewan Lawrie
 This edition first published in 2017

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author of this work has been asserted in accordance
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He has no identity; he is continually in for and
filling some other body
John Keats in a letter to Richard Woodhouse,
1818
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Gibbous House
 Chapter One

I had no sooner buried my wife than I received a summons

to the reading of her late uncles will. Truth told, I was not a
man brought low by grief. Numb and distant, perhaps, but
three long years of watching deaths shadow hover had
sucked the compassion from my soul. I was not aware of any
inheritance that Arabella might have expected, but a trip to
the Inns of Court in London seemed a pleasant diversion.
I was walking through the kind of fine rain that falls with
more insistence than any thunder shower. The streets were
wet as the mud smeared, like a noxious dubbin, on my boots.
Carriages slurped past me, and the cries of street vendors
were muted by the moisture in the air. I turned into Haw-
thorne Lane. Number 15 was not in the best of repair; only
the stout, studded door seemed to have received any mainte-
nance in the past few years: the timber was oiled, the handle
and knocker gleaming in spite of the weather. A brass plate
fixed below the knocker read: Bloat & Scrivener.
I was not even to meet with a partner, as the lawyers letter

1
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

instructed me to ask for a Cartwright, sans titre. I gave the

door a firm rap with the knocker. Scarce had I loosed my grip
but the door opened.
Moffat.
It seemed neither question nor invitation. The speaker
drew the heavy wooden door aside and motioned with his
eyes, and I followed him into a dark, narrow hallway. The
gloom inside was dispiriting. Sconces held unlit candles, and
the faint smell of damp decay lingered even after I brought
my kerchief to my nose. I followed my less than garrulous
guide down the corridor. He stopped abruptly and dealt a
murderous blow to a door that seemed ill-prepared to receive
it. Then he turned the knob with a delicate twist of his finger-
tips and melted away.
Come in, come in, came the enthusiastic, reedy cry. Yell
be Moffat, then.
I recognised the Scots accent of my native Edinburgh,
though mine own had long since faded away. His was a most
peculiar voice: high-pitched, with unexpected modulations,
as if a moderate student of the bagpipes were practising on
his chanter. No less odd was the appearance of the man him-
self. He might have been of middling height had his lower
limbs not revealed the effects of a childhood diet like that of
the worst slum-dweller. His head was uncommon large; the
forehead bulging forth made his hairline seem to recede,
though it plainly did not. I warrant that looking directly
down at his head from above would have revealed an elon-
gated oval. His nose was hooked and his chin curled up, as

2
 EWAN LAWRIE

like to meet it. Were it not for the striking blue innocence of
his eyes, he would have been the very image of a singularly
malevolent Mr Punch.
He introduced himself as Cartwright, though of course I
had guessed as much. Wishing me good morning, he pushed
a meagre pile of papers fastened with a grubby, once-red
ribbon in my direction.
Thaire ye are, itll aw be thaire.
But, Mr Cartwright I began. Its Cartwright, naw but
Cartwright. Well. Let it be so, but I understood there was to
be a reading of a will? And for why? When ye are the only
fellow these papers consairn? And yell no be reading them
here! he added curtly.
With that he ushered me out: laying not a finger on me, he
propelled me all the way into Hawthorne Lane as if by the
force of the will under his enormous brow.

To my chagrin, if not to my surprise, the rain still hung mist-

ily in the air. Two boys running towards the Wig and Feather
careened into my person. It was all I could do to preserve my
dignity and balance. I checked my pockets and my purse.
Only my half-hunter was missing. I wished the thieves well
on it, for the watch had told no time since my wife had
become ill. Some may think me at once sentimental and cal-
lous, for though I had wound it not once since the day she
took to her bed, I let it fall to thieves without a second
thought, and this only one scant week after her death. Both

3
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

charges I will not countenance. I had my reasons, though I do

not care to share them. At least not yet.
I hailed a hansom cab and cursed the inclemency of the
weather once more as the nearside wheel slurried my boots
and trews.
Cheapside, The Chaste Maid Inn, I said as I settled in the
seat. The drivers grunt was eloquent and bespoke a premium
on the fare. As much for the indesirability of my destination
as the elegant cut of my clothes, no doubt.
A rare place, sir, the driver said gruffly as we arrived.
Rare enough, I allowed, paying in coin.
Youll not find another such in Cheapside. The bark of
his laugh was echoed by the crack of his whip and I was
forced to leap clear of the carriage to avoid the splashing
mud.

Be assured that places like The Chaste Maid were, in fact,

none too rare in many parts of London. Its custom comprised
the rough butchers and slaughtermen of the Shambles and the
more rakish of the commodity brokers from Goldsmiths
Row: young blowhards in search of women who made mock
of the hostelrys name. My room was cheap, as it needed to
be: I had made nothing of my modest means in the years of
my wifes illness. Capital needs growth and I had tended mine
but poorly.
Passing through the public bar, I noted Thackeray, the
landlord, hugger-mugger with two hulking brutes who
appeared to know little of either silverside or silver trading.

4
 EWAN LAWRIE

The staircase at the rear was dark and unwelcoming, but it

led to my room and I took it at a gallop. The bed was little
more than a cot and the remaining furnishings were as ill-
matched as the load on a totters van. I threw my topcoat and
hat on the stained bedding and rummaged in the coat for the
red-taped packet of papers.
They were varied: several folded sheets of good vellum,
two of the new-fangled lozenge-shaped envelopes for the
Penny Post and one curious parchment with a broken wax
seal. The parchment was clearly an older document, though
none appeared new. The Penny Post had delivered the two
envelopes to Bloat & Scrivener over a year ago. I sat on the
cot, pushing the soaking topcoat toward the bolster. I had no
intention of remaining another night.
Unaccountably, I trembled as I opened the parchment. It
bore the palsied hand of the aged, the tremors marring the
cursive beauty of the copperplate. I began to read.

It being the year of our Lord 1838 Anno Domini, and

I, Septimus Coble, of Gibbous House, Bamburgh,
Northumbria, being of sound mind, do make this my last
will and testament, voiding all and any extant or anterior
wills and codicils.

I do leave all my possessions in sum and total to the

husband, should there be any such person, of my great-
niece Arabella Cadwallader ne Coble, on condition

5
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

that said party do move himself and all chattels

to reside in Gibbous House without delay on being
apprised of the contents of this my last will and
testament.

Signed and sealed by Septimus Coble in the presence of:

Jeremiah Bloat
and
Cartwright

This 27th day of February 1838 Anno Domini.

I felt sick to my stomach. I could be rich, but at what price?

The proximity of Northumbria to Edinburgh filled me with
dread. Border country.
Cobles will had dropped from my hand and lay like a
discarded playbill on the rough planks of the floor. I picked
it up, folded it carefully into a crisp square and hid it in the
lining of my hat. The Penny Post letters drew my eye: I rec-
ognised the hand on one. The rounded, feminine curves and
the idiosyncratic angles of the descenders and ascenders were
indubitably those of my late wife, although I had not seen her
pick up a pen in the last two years of her invalidity. I tore the
letter from its cover. The handwriting was less sure, no doubt,
than in her days of robust health, but the very fact of it was
a facer indeed. I began to read.

6
 EWAN LAWRIE

Esteemed Mr Bloat,
I have received word from a confidential source that you
may be in possession of some information that could
prove to be to my advantage in the fullness of time.
Should it be within your power and not constitute any
breach of faith, trust or confidentiality, would you apprise
me of any expectations that I may have?
I regret, as I am an invalid, that I am unable to attend
your chambers. Therefore I petition you most respectfully
to reply at your convenience,
Cordially yours,
Mrs Arabella Moffat, ne Coble.

Laying it to one side, I picked up the other. A masculine hand,

also recognisable; I had but moments ago read its owners last
wishes concerning the disposition of his legacy. I drew the
letter from its enveloping lozenge; if it had been read more
than once, it had been treated with extraordinary delicacy.
The missive began abruptly, without salutation or preamble.
Whether it was read by Bloat, Scrivener or, Gods grace, Cart-
wright, was therefore unknown:

Be in no doubt, I hold yourselves responsible should my

great-niece be so misguided as to believe I hold her in
any kind of affection. Whence she knows of any legacy, I
should be most gratified to be enlightened, as your
lawyerly selves were left in no doubt by mine own
instructions as to the extreme confidentiality of this

7
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

matter. I urge you not to enter into any correspondence

with Mrs Arabella Cadwallader ne Coble, on pain of a
suit on which I should have no hesitation in expending
my not inconsiderable fortune.
Coble

The queasy feeling in my abdomen was no mere hunger pang.

I thought only of the name Cadwallader, by which to my
knowledge my late wife had never been known.

8
 Chapter Two

Sustenance was necessary, even though my appetite had van-

ished, leaving only a bitter taste in my mouth. I shook out my
topcoat and laid it out to dry on the floor by the draughty
sash window. The letters, and the blank sheets of vellum, I
placed in a pocket of my frock coat. Picking up my hat from
the bed, I looked at my ageing attire in the cracked cheval and
repaired to the public bar.
Thackerays confederates were nowhere to be seen and
glad I was of it. The man himself was behind the counter
dispensing a pint of porter to a broker who seemed altogether
too young for his impressive whiskers. The same observation
could not have been made about mine host. He was a man,
as we were wont to say then, in the prime of life: his whiskers
put one in mind of J.C. Loudons most extravagant feats of
topiary. Less aesthetically pleasing was his shirt, which had
long abandoned any pretension to a state of whiteness. It was
heroically stained and, no doubt, scented by the fruits of his
labour. This garment, which would have been commodious
for the majority of humanity, strained to hold in his paunch.

9
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

It was not blessed with a collar, and by dint of a nod to the

custom of wearing a cravat, was topped off by a filthy look-
ing rag.
He addressed me in his usual servile fashion, which,
though no trace of insincerity showed in his mien, aroused in
me a sense of being ridiculed.
Mister Moffat, ow may I be of service? Porter, claret, gin
for the... gentleman?
Ill have a plate of chops, Thackeray, and some honest beer.
It was ever thus. Thackeray had no reason to think of me
as anything less than a gentleman. However, he lost no
opportunity to slight me by pause or intonation. My circum-
stances did not allow me to make protest or restitution,
though I sorely wished they did.
I seated myself at the table furthest from the door. The
landlord himself brought me a pewter tankard, which he
filled from a pitcher of beer. From past experience I knew
my comestibles could arrive post haste, but would more
likely come at Mrs Thackerays convenience, which was to
say none too soon. Eurydice Thackeray filled the role of cook
in The Chaste Maid and never was a cook more inconve-
nienced by the prospect of culinary duties. Despite her
euphonious name, Mrs Thackeray was more oak than nymph
and she certainly reminded no one, least of all Thackeray, of
a sweet maiden.
Through the inns grubby window, I caught sight of one of
the brutes who had been speaking with Thackeray earlier. He
peered through the square of glass, fixed me with a malevo-

10
 EWAN LAWRIE

lent eye and gave me, I swear it, a savage nod and a wink such
as Jack Ketch might give Mr Punch.
I should like to say the reverie with which I filled the wait
for Mrs Thackerays inconvenience concerned plans to spend
my newfound wealth, or of fond memories of the wife who
had brought me such unexpected fortune. But it behoves
me to confess that I spent the time, and I know not how
long it was, ransacking my past for the faintest trace of a
Cadwallader.
Even without the dubious benefit of their leathery flesh, the
stripped bones of my lamb chops hardly covered any less of
my platter. I tossed some copper coins on the trestle top and
resolved to quit The Chaste Maid to take some air. Halfway
to the door, I reconsidered the prospects of an improvement
in the elements and mounted the stairs once more to recover
my topcoat. To my surprise, it no longer lay before the
window. Indeed, it was absent altogether. All too present were
the bedclothes, strewn as they were about the room and gar-
nished with the few items of personal clothing I had left in
the scabrous tallboy next to the cheval mirror. One of the
brutes had been spying on me through the window before I
began eating. Thackeray would provide some answers, I
hoped. I threw up the sash window and looked down at the
street outside. It appeared that come dusk a lamplighter
would be searching for his ladder.
In the public bar, the landlord was smearing a tankard
with a rag as filthy as the one adorning his crop. He lifted his
chin in acknowledgement of my regard.

11
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Mr Moffat, he said.
Thackeray, I rejoindered, and held his eye in the hope of
provoking discomfiture.
In a few moments, he rewarded me with a grudging, Ill
send the missus up. All right? He lifted his eyebrows at me.
Indeed, it is not all right. Who was he?
He ran a finger around his neck for all the world as if he
had a collar on his shirt.
The both of them were Peelers, sir. What could I do? For
once it seemed his deference was genuine.
Could they not have used the stairs, man?
Sergeant Purewipe and Constable Smackle were both in
the Runners before. Out of Bow Street. Old abits die hard,
Mr Moffat.
What did they want? Did they say?
For answer I received only a shake of his head and a look
of pity for the ninny who would ask such a question in expec-
tation of any answer. I lifted a salute of sorts to the brim of
my hat and wished him good day.

Mercifully, the rain had stopped. Steam rose from the mud in
the streets, and the day was bright and clear, as were the
sounds of London itself. Still intent on a walk to clear my
head, I braved the mud and the street vendors and headed
toward St Pauls.
Cheapside, like most of London, was overrun with Cheap
Johns, watercress girls, flower girls and the like. Shouts of
Scissors sharp as like to cut themselves! Only a shillin!

12
 EWAN LAWRIE

melded with the plaintive cries of watercress girls of barely

eight years old hawking Creases, creases four bunches a
penny. I tossed a penny to a smut-faced girl in a yellow
bonnet and turned away as she held out the wilting bunch of
greenery. Arabellas child would have been the same age,
I supposed.
The day being so fine, and cheered by this contrast with its
earlier misery, I embarked upon a circumambulation of the
cathedral, if only to distract myself from the thought of the
two officers. Turning left from Cheapside into the Old
Change, I turned right on Church Yard. At the foot of
Ludgate Hill, a crowd had gathered. Moving closer, I per-
ceived they were watching a performance.
A stall like that of a Punch and Judy show, only far more
capacious, was almost blocking the thoroughfare. It seemed
too grand to be wheeled along by its proprietor, however
strong he might be, and yet I saw no dray or mule in its vicin-
ity. Drawing nearer still, I apprised myself of the nature of
the show.
Wooden figures japed around the stage, jerked by strings
manipulated by an unseen hand. In no way were these move-
ments natural; they were more like the jerkings of the palsied
interspersed with episodes of St Vitus. I had seen such shows
before they were still known amongst their performers as
The Fantoccini, though the fashionable preferred the term
Marionettes, proud of having seen the Gribaldi Royal
shows at the Adelaide Gallery on the Strand. Arriving in
medias res detracted not a whit from the entertainments

13
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

comprehensibility, the show being a hotchpotch of imitations

of circus acts and lampoons of actors from the legitimate
theatre. A hurdy-gurdy player provided an infinite variety of
musical accompaniment to the clacking of the stringed dolls.
As I watched, they began the final figure. It was introduced
as The Scotchman and a riot of plaid and whiskers appeared
onstage, then capered energetically in a Highland Fling not
even a Scot would have recognised. I made to leave as the
hunchbacked proprietor begged some indulgence of the audi-
ence, while his assistant played a magyar reel. A voice like a
cracked bell assaulted my ears. Wait, sir. Wait. Did you not
enjoy the spectacle?
It was no London voice, but neither was it Italian as one
might have expected. I felt the hunched figure must be
German or Gypsy and his blunt looks did not gainsay me.
I liked it well enough, except for the last, I replied.
Then remove a sum from your payment accordingly, sir.
That is fair, is it not? He tugged my sleeve for emphasis.
I am not bound to pay for street entertainment.
Ah, a Scot yourself then. And he cackled, mouth wide
open, showing an absence of any teeth and the presence of
brimstone breath.
I was shaken to the core, furious at my origins being
divined, and I snatched my sleeve from his grasp. I stalked off
to cries of Keep your balsam for the catchpoles, you nimmer!,
which showed that he was a Londoner now, whatever he had
been before.
The walk cleared my head, though I could not help but

14
 EWAN LAWRIE

think again of the bailiffs. There was little for me to fear from
them. Gibbous House should bring enough balsam to satisfy
the lowest of thieving nimmers. It was time to go north and
play the hand out, no matter what other cards might fall.
Londons capricious weather had again taken a turn for
the worse, but I held to my resolve to quit The Chaste Maid
that day, July thirteenth, 184_. Clouds had covered the set-
ting sun and no amount of crepuscular carmine could
mitigate the gathering gloom.
I intended to inform Thackeray and depart forthwith, but
on entering the inn I remarked on both the relative paucity
of custom given the hour and the presence of Sergeant
Purewipe and Constable Smackle. The landlord was busying
himself cleaning some brass that had not felt the touch of
cloth since the Regency.
Purewipe fixed me with his hangmans glare and enquired,
Mr Moffat, Mr Alasdair Moffat?
I allowed that I was, since plainly he knew already. He
cleared his throat, as if uncertain how to begin.
Ah... it concerns a timepiece. We... have reason to believe
it is yours, since your name is engraved upon it.
Mine is not an uncommon name in some parts of the
Commonwealth, Sergeant, I said, remaining cool and await-
ing developments.
Its not yours then? Smackle sneered.
I did not say that, Constable.
Well, is it, Mr Moffat? Purewipe was clearly the more
dangerous of the two.

15
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

It might be, Sergeant. I had the misfortune to be relieved

of mine earlier today in Hawthorne Lane. Not the only crime
of which I was the victim today, in truth. I smiled at the
two brutes.
Purewipe coloured. Perhaps his collar was a little tight.
Might you have a witness to the theft, sir? There was
gravel in his voice and I felt uneasy.
My pocket was picked, Sergeant. No one sees a dip. Surely
my word... ?
Smackle gave a snigger. Purewipe held up a hand.
Your watch, sir, was but recently found in the hand of a
corpse. He raised his eyebrows.
By you, Sergeant?
As it happens, sir.
Did you find a coat nearby?
He had the good grace to blanch at this and I surmised that
the Peelers had been indulging in a little private business to
augment their admittedly pitiful income. He straightened his
shoulders and leaned his glowering face into mine.
Mr Moffat, I have a message for you... He looked over
each shoulder, as if someone were likely to come down the
stairs with a billy club. He went on, Go north, Mr Moffat.
Go north. He tipped me a salute.
They were almost at the door when I asked, Who was it,
Sergeant? The unfortunate?
I was hardly surprised when he answered, I believe he was
known as Cartwright, sir.
Whether it was a matter of his belief or certain knowl-

16
 EWAN LAWRIE

edge was moot. I suspected that he had learned some-

thing of my business from the deceased legal minion, in any
event. I would have supposed that they presumed that I
had despatched Cartwright, had I not already assured myself
that they themselves had done it. It would not have been the
first time such fellows had removed an inconvenience on
anothers behalf.
Thackeray had a wary eye on me as I turned to face him.
He remained quite expressionless as I bade him prepare my
account for settlement, merely intimating that my debt to him
was in the sum of three pounds. I presented him with my bill
of exchange, adding, In the sum of three guineas, in recogni-
tion of the pains taken for my comfort.
Answer gave he none. He merely tore my bill into tiny
pieces and jerked his head toward the descending figure of his
spouse, carrying my valise down the stairs.
I would make for the coach north, but first I had need of
more funds than I had and I made for a gentlemans club I
knew, where a man might make a little tin at cards. My bag-
gage I left with a man known for his relative honesty in the
environs of The Chaste Maid. I had frightened him more than
once into being so in his dealings with me, at least. The sky
once again looked as though it had a mind to rain. I turned
up my collar and made my way to Cockchafers.

I felt the rain on my face as an affront. Even in Whitechapel,

the sun ought most surely to appear from time to time. The
wheel of a dustmans cart splashed my trousers and boots,

17
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

which was less an inconvenience than the spores of dusty filth

that a fine day might have engendered. In consequence, I was
wet, cold and hungry. I had come directly from a game of
cart at whose table there were gentlemen even less careful
of the laws of honest gaming than I, otherwise I might have
been less hungry and most certainly warmer.
Dorset Street was my destination. As expected, it was
narrow, dank and filthy. My mood would not improve if I did
not encounter Tess Hamilton at the very end of the close. She
had learned her business from Ikey Solomon, and, though I
did not hold out much hope for the receipt of anything
approaching the value of my pilfered items, I did hope that
she would recognise them as items of quality. In sundry pock-
ets of my topcoat I had several gold fobs and chains, a silver
calling-card holder in an exquisite design and, best of all, a
miniature sapphire cylinder pocket watch made by Courvois-
ier and Comp. This last was a quite beautiful piece and had
it not been for the fact that I was without any kind of address,
fashionable or no, I should have kept it for myself. My
removal of these items from my erstwhile partners at cards I
justified by the certain knowledge that they had cheated from
the instant the first hand had been dealt.
I saw no symbol of the pawnbrokers trade. It was a plain
entrance with a solid door and few windows. My knock
remained unanswered and I gave up after the third attempt
for the sake of my knuckles. Moments later, I heard a shrill
Gardy Loo! and was thoroughly soaked by the contents of

18
 EWAN LAWRIE

a particularly fetid chamber pot. The raucous laughter that

ensued told me that Miss Hamilton was in residence.
I have pretties, Tess.
The face under the dirty and crumpled bonnet could be
said to have resembled nothing other than a close-shaven
Barbary ape. The voice was as high-pitched as a young boys
and emerged from an all but toothless mouth. Furthermore,
the filth that issued therefrom would have shamed a lighter-
man at the East India Docks. The woman screwed one eye as
tight as one might without blocking the ingress of light com-
pletely.
Tis you, Moffat? Truly?
Of course it is, my lovely.
Miss Hamilton let out a cackle, which soon devolved into
a catastrophic explosion of phlegm and spittle. Paroxysm
coming to a close, she wheezed, There is no doubt of it, Mr
Moffat, yere a fair treat. Ill be down momentarily.
The head disappeared from the upstairs window and I
awaited the opening of the door.
Not seen you since Michaelmas last, Mr Moffat.
The woman stood on tiptoe and with her arm at full
stretch pinched my cheek with a fearsome grip.
How Ikey would have loved you, Mr Moffat, were you
here as a boy. You are the spit of Jack Dawkins himself.
Miss Tess Hamilton regaled me with the tales of Ikeys
favourites whenever I availed myself of her services. I could
only conclude the man had been an insatiable old fence.
I followed the diminutive figure into such filth and squalor

19
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

as might suit a mudlark or a midden-fly. She bent to collect a

tallow-fat candle from a tallboy that looked relatively new.
I have no time for furnishings and carpentry. The small
pretties, theyre the things, Mr Moffat, eh?
We left the front parlour and entered the scullery. This
same space hid behind the staircase, which arose in the
middle of the muck and bric-a-brac that might have covered
a sofa or a hibernating bear. There was no doubt that some
food had been prepared at some time in the tiny space to
which the woman had brought us. I could not in all con-
science say that it had ever been eaten by man or woman.
Which is to say that the smell was, indeed, fearsome.
Miss Hamilton had the misfortune to be both short and
rotund. Her bell-like shape gave forth no ringing tones how-
ever, her voice being as rough as a sailors stubble.
What have you brought me, Mr Moffat? The woman put
her head to one side and fluttered her eyelashes. I was glad
that I had not drunk too much while at cards.
I took out what I had taken from the other players while
I had been losing to them at cart.
Despite the womans slitted eyes, she could not prevent the
gleam from appearing the moment she saw the watch. She
rubbed her hands and snatched the watch from my hands.
On making a half-turn away from me, the better to use the
thin light coming through the hole in the exterior wall, she
let out the noise of a self-satisfied cat.
Purr-etty!
How much, woman? I havent time to waste.

20
 EWAN LAWRIE

I was in receipt of a sly look and presumed her offer would

not be to my liking. The watch had cost a guinea at the least
when purchased, according to the fop who had lost it to my
talents as a pickpurse.
Ill give you two shiny pennies, my prince.
Youll give me a crown and like it. I stood over her but
she merely looked up at me, back arched, as though about
to hiss. Then she shrugged. Sixpence, for your handsome
face, then.
I would have turned her upside down and shaken all the
money from her person, had I thought it would do a bit
of good.
A half-crown, out of fairness and honour.
But there is only one thief present. Her laugh was again
phlegmy and somehow lascivious.
It is shaming to say it, but I laid her low when I struck her
with my fist. I searched her person and found precisely six-
pence to add to my limited funds. I searched the scullery. The
parlour was an impossibility. Mounting the staircase, I was
astounded to come upon one beautifully appointed bedroom
as would have befitted a fashionable house in Curzon Street,
save for the sackcloth at the window. There was no strong
box, no loose floorboard, no hidden compartment and no
money. Tess Hamilton still lay where she had fallen. As I
departed the hovel, her groaning convinced me that she was
not bound for the inferno quite yet.

21
 Chapter Three

It was late afternoon. Baggage in hand, I hailed a carriage

and directed the driver to Smithfield in the hope of securing
a coach north that very evening. With my inheritance in
mind, I considered the prospect of one day having the where-
withal to make the journey north on a steam locomotive. For
the moment my means remained such that I could afford only
a seat on the coach out on the Great North Road, and
that outside.
It had begun to feel cold, and in the interest of expediency
I decided to avail myself of the Fortune of Wars privy. I
relieved a sleeping and somewhat portly gentleman of his
topcoat. In times past, he might have lost more than his coat
at the hands of the resurrectionists who frequented the inn
some years ago. Since the man was safe from the anatomists
slab, I left only a penny or two in recompense, for the coat
was not in style and a d___ poor fit.
At the hour of eight, the coach was all but ready for depar-
ture, save for the absence of an inside passenger. The
coachman himself fussed with the traces, but showed less

22
 EWAN LAWRIE

impatience than the clergyman whose red bulb of a nose

emerged periodically into the cooling air to the accompani-
ment of much harrumphing and sighing. I was merely
curious: what quality of passenger could hold the departure
of the Newcastle coach? After a time, and only shortly before
the reverend suffered an apoplexy, the tardy traveller arrived.
It was a womanly figure, well wrapped against the elements,
though despite the swaddling she was perceptibly young. She
moved daintily but determinedly, deigning to nod at the
coachman as she waited for him to assist her.
I laughed as the churchmans head attempted the window
at the very moment the coachman opened the door. The
woman looked up at me, and it is no self-deception to say
that I discerned the lineaments of a smile before she averted
her gaze. The memory of the journey, like that of so many
others like it, sits deep in my marrow, so penetrating was
the cold. Inside the carriage the jouncing and jostling from the
ruts and potholes of the roads, so poorly maintained by the
Turnpike Trust, were sufficient that ladies in a delicate con-
dition were often advised against travel.
Outside, where I in my Pantagruelian topcoat had taken
post, it was a gargantuan struggle not to be thrown off at
every corner. Attempting to grip fast to a moving carriage
with hands numb with icy cold is no easy feat; it is a wonder
there are not more unfortunate incidents. But I am no tyro
in matters of the outside fare and held tight to my post for
my life.
By morning, and after a change of horses that could only

23
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

have coincided with the pitifully short period of slumber

allowed to me, we had reached Stevenage. My travelling
companions evinced as little interest in me as I, in truth, could
muster in them. However, I felt I could not forego the oppor-
tunity to ask of news from London. I doubted that the
clergyman had read either the early or late editions, but I did
have hopes of the merchantmen. Indeed, for all my confi-
dence that Smackle and Purewipe had not been paid for their
efforts from the public purse, it was not sure that they had
not later made some official report of Cartwrights death. Or,
worse still, fabricated a part for me in it.
Addressing myself to either Castor or Pollux, I began, Sir,
I am but recently come from the colonies and would know
something of London since I spent so little time there before
our departure.
He eyed me as though I had passed him a clipped coin.
Then he began to regale me with the most impenetrable
arcana concerning the beneficial fluctuations in the price of
American cotton and the prospect of the collapse of the
Indian manufactories. Attempting to steer the conversation
into waters of more interest to myself, I interrupted. How
very interesting. But changes go far beyond the commercial,
do they not? I have heard that London has become uncom-
mon dangerous of late, and this despite the esteemed efforts
of the Metropolitan Service.
Once again I received a look of near contempt from
whichever of the merchant twins I had engaged in conversa-
tion. It appeared scarcely credible to him that the safety of

24
 EWAN LAWRIE

persons might be more important than the bale price of

American cotton at auction. Rather boldly, it might be said,
the clergymans travelling companion a Miss Euphemia
Lascelles interposed:
Oh, indeed, sir, of late I seldom venture out without pro-
tection of the male persuasion.
I had little doubt of that.
To my surprise, the reverend, one Nicodemus Parminter,
nodded vigorously, the high colour of his cheeks and nose as
expressive as those of a pantomime harlequin. And neither
should you. Why, even a gentleman risks much in parts of the
capital! I would never venture into Cheapside but for my
calling among the Magdalens.
I forebore to commend him on the obvious sincerity and
depth of his vocation, asking, Indeed? And what of other
locales, surely the Haymarket or Temple Bar are safe enough?
Parminter began to form his lips to the shape of undoubtable
wisdom on the matter, but he was interrupted by the hitherto
mute of the merchants. Contrariwise, sir. They are not. I had
occasion to witness the aftermath of a brutal murder at the
Inns of Court today. Off Hawthorne Lane, in fact.
There was no need to provoke the man to elaborate, as
Miss Lascelles leaned across the reverend who may have
reddened still more to place a gloved hand on the man of
trades knee.
Oh please! Spare me only such details as are too gross for
these delicate ears.
The merchant removed the hand with a thumb and fore-

25
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

finger, and I looked forward to a more explicit account than

even Sergeant Purewipes official report might have provided.
I have occasion, he began, to visit the Inns of Court from
time to time. A trifling if a little drawn out matter of entail
on my late mothers side. My lawyers squirrel their precious
papers in chambers not far from Hawthorne Lane: Shawcross
& Co. They are of sufficient note to consign my dealings with
them to various drones who comprise the & Co. rather than
any Shawcross. Having concluded my business with them
this afternoon, I intended to exploit the respite from the rain
by taking the air until the odour of mildewed documents had
cleared my nostrils. It was as I was passing a mean little
cut-passage that I overheard rough and uncultured voices.
My interruption bidding him to fix a time for these events
was greeted with the glare of Plinys Cyrenean serpent. None-
theless, he answered, It may have been a little after two, or
it may not. One of what I supposed to be the ruffians was
instructing the other in the positioning of what he termed the
hevidence. From the grunts and epithets, I presumed it was
very heavy indeed.
He paused briefly, shrugged at the indifference to his
needle wit and continued. I peered down the alley and was a
little taken aback to espy two Metropolitans standing over
what was clearly a corpse. Its hand was clutching a watch on
a chain, a little unnaturally to my eye, as if he had expired in
the act of dropping it. Nearby was a shabby topcoat clearly
too large in dimension to have belonged to the departed. The
larger of the two policemen gave me a gallows look and bade

26
 EWAN LAWRIE

me depart, so I took one last look at the hunched and pathetic

figure on the ground and went about my business.
Again, Miss Lascelles indecorous curiosity saved my
arousing any more suspicion: Oh, how terrible! Who was
he, do you know, sir?I do not. The man paused, to gather
his thoughts mayhap. But do you know I cannot forget the
poor fellows legs, most uncommon malformed they were.
With that, all fell silent for the remainder of the stage, until
the luncheon halt at Buckden. In the silence, I pondered rea-
sons for Cartwrights demise and wished, in vain, to blame all
on chance.
I was in a brown study throughout our sojourn in Buckden
and missed the departure of the reverends companion on
the southbound mail. On boarding the coach once again, I
noted the fellow had reverted to the fractious and fidgeting
demeanour I had witnessed prior to the ladys arrival for
the coach from London. Perhaps the mantle of piety itched
him somewhat.
Castor and Pollux had taken seats each next to the other.
Perhaps Miss Lascelles presence had discomfited them, for
they did seem to prefer the company of gentlemen to that of
the fairer sex. As we rode in near-companionable silence, my
fellow passengers having lunched in somewhat better style
than I soon succumbed to a post-prandial torpor.
For want of other entertainment, I reached inside my frock
coat for the packet of papers the late Cartwright had
bequeathed to me. On the point of extracting Cobles will
from the lining of my hat and rereading that first, I suddenly

27
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

noticed that the blank vellum sheets were void no longer. By

some arcane means, writing had appeared. Despite having the
look of old and faded ink of poor quality it was discernible,
though not intelligible, at least not to me. It had the look of
the Greek of the Ancients, although I knew enough to scry
that it was not.
Frustrated, I put the papers away, staring instead at the
moving landscape, watching Huntingdonshire become Lin-
colnshire and later Nottinghamshire. By the fading light I
calculated the hour to be seven or eight in the evening the
coachman was now struggling to persuade the horses that the
White Swan was indeed our destination. This inn had stood
for some sixty years as the Northgate in Newark-on-Trent,
and so we remaining passengers, along with the driver and
horses, would be lodged for the night there.
The building itself showed evidence of better upkeep than
the coaching inns were wont to endure at that time. The
whitewash was recent and the signs freshly painted there
was no doubt that this was entirely due to the inns proximity
to a prospective station of the recently begun Great Northern
Railway. Indeed, there was even discussion with the landlord
concerning our accommodations. It seemed there were but
two rooms available for the coach, the others being let to
those passengers recently arrived by other means . By happy
coincidence, the coachman preferred to stay at a house kept
by a widow near the Market Square. Castor and Pollux, their
dtente yet pertaining, were only too pleased to share a room.

28
 EWAN LAWRIE

I made loud noise of my dissatisfaction at having to share,

even with a clergyman, but secretly blessed the saving of a
shilling.

29
 Chapter Four

All four wayfarers dined at common table and on simple fare.

The reverend showed an appetite for port that his nose and
cheeks betokened. The men of trade drank little, and I con-
tented myself with a penny gin. The conversation was dull:
cotton, slaves and incredibly the Taiping Rebellion in far-
off China, although I suspect the merchants were less
interested in its effects on missionary work than on the price
of china tea. Making my excuses, I repaired to the room I was
to share with the clergyman, hoping to gain some advantage
in the matter of sleeping arrangements.
The bed was large enough to accommodate two men of
middling size, a description that might have fit both the rev-
erend and myself, were one not too specific in defining
middling. I moved the bolster to the centre of the bed, and
betook myself to the side furthermost from the windows
draughts. Sleep came swift enough and departed swifter.
Reverend Parminter fell cacophonously into the room, as
if pitched into a gaol cell by an angry turnkey. He was singing
in a prodigious if inexpert voice, meandering between keys

30
 EWAN LAWRIE

as though determined to visit them all in the course of one

hymn. It was not a pastoral exhortation to the contemplation
of God; Parminter was bellowing Soldiers of Christ, Arise
like a militant missionary converting the Chinee at the toe of
his boot and the knuckle of his fist. What Charles Wesley
would have made of his rendition, I did not know.
Mercifully, the hymn was one without refrain or chorus,
and I hoped the flatness of the note attached to more was
the end of my trials for the night. It was not to be. As befit a
man of the cloth, Parminter prepared himself to say his
prayers. He made several abortive attempts at genuflection
before sliding to the floor and sitting cross-legged in passable
imitation of a Hindu swami.
He passed an entertaining hour in listing his many failings,
a good few of which had arisen due to his efforts to save
women of easy virtue, a prominent figure among whom was
one who may, or may not, have borne the name Lascelles.
He fell asleep where he sat and I profited myself from some
hours sleep, thanks to the blessed peace his prayers had
brought him.

I awoke with a start to a litany on the virtues of moderation.

The dream had been as vivid as ever and I woke before its
denouement, although I well knew how the matter ended: in
sweated and befouled bed linen, odour, death and resurrec-
tion of a kind. I could not help but note that of late the dream
had come more frequently and I felt a little uneasy thereby.
A mans good name is a passepartout in the colonies only

31
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

if that name comes from quality does it open doors in the

home country. To those born without a name of any descrip-
tion, more doors are barred than in the deepest dungeon.
There came a knock at the door, and a gruff shout of Moffat!
Alasdair Moffat!
Drawing the door open sufficient only to view the visitor
and hide my dshabill, I peered out. A coachman met my eye
and enquired:
Moffat?
Perhaps.
The man gave a snort of exasperation. The mail coach
south is without and Ill be on it soon, are ye Moffat or not?
Did we say that I were, what of it?
His face reddened in total measure, save for the very tip of
his nose, and he made to leave. I put out a hand and excused
myself by intimating that since I had been lately disturbed
from slumber, I was still a little stuporous. He muttered and
held out a letter, saying, Packet. Without asking for any
bona fides or receipt, he left it with me. I threw the letter
onto the bed and went about my toilette.
I was still turning the letter over and over in my hands
after boarding the coach. Parminter eyed me as if I had
refuted the resurrection in the middle of his Easter sermon;
perhaps he remembered some of his unusual prayers of the
previous evening. Nods so curt as to be discourteous were all
I received from the mercantile brethren. It bothered me not a
whit. As the wheels clattered over the first of many ruts, I
opened the letter.

32
 EWAN LAWRIE

To the husband of the late Arabella Cadwallader ne

Coble, it began.

We regret the circumlocutory salutation to the

esteemed recipient of this missive. You, having
received it from the hand of a mail-coach driver, will
have the advantage of ourselves on concluding your
reading. We supposed, quite correctly, if you are indeed
perusing this communiqu, that you would waste no
time in travelling north to fulfil the requirements of the
late Mr Cobles will. We ask you to board a further
coach, to Alnwick, on arrival in Newcastle upon Tyne.
Should your means be insufficient to cover the journey,
please contact the agent at the field office, where
arrangements have been made. Sadly, we are unable
to advance funds commensurate with onward travel
by railway, or for incidental expenses.
We have arranged for a phaeton to attend the
arrival in Alnwick of the Newcastle coach every evening
until the 31st. You will be met by our representative,
a Jedediah Maccabi, who will accompany you to the
Harbour Inn, Seahouses. If you would be so gracious as
to attend the day following, at 10 ante meridian, the
offices of:
John Brown & Son
Notaries Public
11, King Street
Seahouses.

33
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

It was signed in a masculine hand with little fuss or flourish.

I sighed and folded the letter into my packet of papers and
wished the journey away as a prisoner does the days of his
sentence. Resolving to feign sleep, I was soon blessed by
dreamless oblivion.
Oblivion, but only until Newcastle, where the dusk was
falling. All passengers disembarked with none of the insincere
invitations, and certainly no exchanging of cards, which
might have been expected in more congenial company. I
stood by the coach step and watched as the merchants took
leave of each other a little reluctantly, it seemed. The rever-
end stalked away straight-backed and with nary a backward
glance. When I stood quite alone before the coaching house,
I withdrew my purse with some trepidation and counted the
sum of six shillings threepence hapenny, of which an alarm-
ing amount consisted in worn copper. Still, it was sufficient
unto my needs and, forswearing any likelihood of indebted-
ness to John Brown & Son of Seahouses, I went in search of
the landlord to enquire of an outside seat to Alnwick.

34
 Chapter Five

Thirty-two miles on the Great North Road took me from

Newcastle to Alnwick, through Gosforth, Morpeth and
Felton, where the Coquet is crossed. Signposts pointed to
Hexham, Otterburn and Rothbury and, despite this evidence
of civilisation, the landscape reminded me that this land was
once too fierce for the Romans, who built a wall to keep its
inhabitants at bay.
It seemed to me that the further from London coaches
travelled, the more poorly were the turnpikes maintained.
This final stage of my journey commenced at dawn, after my
arrival in Newcastle, and we made slower progress than I
would have liked, considering how my night had been passed.
After having booked my outside seat the previous night, I
took my remaining shillings to Grainger Street and Eldon
Square in the hope of finding a suitable establishment to fill
my hours, and perhaps my pockets. The streets were all but
deserted, and I remembered that a recent bout of cholera had
claimed numerous lives in the city. For most of the remainder
of the evening, I held my kerchief over my nose whilst in the

35
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

open air. There was nothing for it but to seek a less salubrious
area of the city and accost the first likely fellow I met.
A walk of some twenty minutes found me at the other end
of Grainger Street in the Bigg Market, whose inns seemed
lively enough, although the street lamps stood too close
together for my taste. Some tasks were best performed in the
shadows, in my experience. No great distance off the Bigg
Market itself a figure stumbled out of the George Yard, likely
having left the Old George Inn. He turned left along the
street. The most promising aspect the figure displayed by the
light of the gas lamp was indeed its wavering gait. A drunken
dupe is easier deceived, after all.
As I drew nearer and he passed from the pooled light, the
lineaments of his shape from the rear began to seem familiar.
Nearer still and it became apparent that the fellow was deep
in conversation with someone quite invisible to me. By
chance he darted into the meanest close, perhaps to relieve
himself of some of the quantity of liquid he had evidently
consumed. I resolved to relieve the fellow of his purse by
more direct means and duly followed.
It was somewhat surprising that the Reverend Parminter
did not recognise me as he struggled and twisted to remove
the yellow scarf I tightened around his neck. It was only meet
that I lean over his shoulder if only to ensure he knew the
identity of the benefactor who had sent him on his way to
meet his beloved god. I left the yellow scarf, as I had done on
past occasions, reasoning the police would hunt only for a

36
 EWAN LAWRIE

Hindoo Thuggee, one of those goddess-worshipping assassins

so lately subdued in India and still the subject of tall tales.
Parminter had a surprising quantity of coin in his purse. I
took his watch as I had none, and he would have no need of
it to measure eternity.

The coach was trundling through Denwick, little more

than a church and three cottages. There remained but a few
miles to the Hotspur Tower and Bondgate Within. I planned
to alight at The Olde Cross Inn in the Narrowgate and spend
a few shillings on a room and board, any plans of John
Brown or his catspaw Maccabi notwithstanding. The driver
had readily agreed to triangulate the Market Cross and
approach it from the Narrowgate; he had not discussed this
diversion with the inside passengers and I considered that
particular exemplar of Parminters coin extremely well spent.
As I came gingerly down from the coach, the driver
directed me towards the left-hand window of The Olde Cross
and he struggled vainly against his Northumbrian consonants
to render himself intelligible to me: Divvent caal ut the Cross,
mind. Caal ut the Dorty Bottles, lookah. Harry Hotspurs
short-tongued r fought its way through his narrow lips and
I had no doubt the man could have passed in the French
capital as a native, if all he said were its name.
Why, man? Why are dirty bottles kept in the window? I
take it not as good advertisement in a hostelry.
Ivverone caals it that. The laanlawll tell yiz, jus gan ask
um. They caal um Robson.

37
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

I took my bag and resolved to ask mine host at the earliest

opportunity. It was a curious thing and it piqued my interest.
A room was negotiated at half the London rate, which I
could have paid in Newcastle too, had I been able to sleep.
Slumber comes hard to me after such events; reverie and
revision of the glory keep one enervated, I find. The landlord
of The Olde Cross I still could not bring myself to call it
by its sobriquet was narrow-eyed, gap-toothed and pos-
sessed of a forehead so low as to admit the minimum of grey
matter for locomotion. Appearances proved deceptive, as I
then found.
Robson. I waved a hand at him across the counter top.
Porter; a bottle from the window, if you please.
In an accent as rustic as the coachmans, if a little less
Gallic, he replied, Please yoursel, sir. But yizll oblige us and
gan geddit yoursel, too.
I had no intention of touching the filthy phials in the
window and asked him, Will you not serve me, Robson?
Not frum those bottles.
And why would that be?
Why, thiz corsed, man! Hev bin since Adam Collingwood
breathed uz last putting those very bottles in the winda.
A voice came from over my shoulder: mellifluent, educated
and not a little seductive, though it were a mans.
Yes, some fifty years ago, none have touched them since.
Utter nonsense, of course.
I turned to see a tall man just leaving the very prime of
youth; approaching thirty years as if intent on remaining

38
 EWAN LAWRIE

there. He proffered his hand and gave the name I least

expected: Jedediah Maccabi at your service, Mr Moffat.
Raising an eyebrow, I took his hand. Despite his Semitic
name, he was blond-haired, and his looks bespoke Viking
blood from an earlier England. His grip was firm and the
hand calloused, though his clothing had clearly never been
worn whilst performing manual labour. It was immaculate,
of the very best of quality and some fifty years out of date
to my eye.
The coach driver, he said. He drinks in The Bell, by the
Hotspur Tower. Hes a renowned conversationalist and a
shilling buys a lot of gin, does it not?
It was said with a smile worthy of beatification, although
the name he had given me made that somewhat unlikely.
Indeed it does, Maccabi. Though I believe that you have
wasted it even so, I would have met you at the staging post
on the thirty-first, I assure you of that.
Why tarry, Moffat? Why put off your inheritance, and a
change of clothes?
Why, indeed? An opportunity to lie low for three days and
scour the Northumberland Gazette for news of Parminter, to
savour accounts of Thuggee gangs terrorising the Tyne and to
ensure that I was quite clear of any taint of suspicion.
I considered my answer before replying, It has ever been
my custom to check the mouth of any horse, gift or no.
Maccabi threw back his head and laughed, a harsh and
dissonant sound it was quite possibly the only unattractive

39
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

thing about him. It pleased me that there was something I

might despise him for.
Well said, Moffat. But John Brown is a byword for scruple
in Northumbria. Would you dine with me? The Olde Cross
has a passable table, I believe.
Who was I to gainsay him? Besides, he had invited me and
I presumed all would be to his account.

The room was dark; candles in sconces and oil lamps few in
number provided such illumination as there was. The dark,
heavily varnished beams and woodwork sucked this light in
rather than reflected it. Perhaps the patina of dirt was deliber-
ately maintained to lend credibility to the preposterous legend
of the dirty bottles. To me, it just seemed another grubby inn,
but I never saw anyone touch the glassware, though many
seemed drunk enough to brave more dangerous feats. The
table too was darkly varnished, marked with the initials and
sundry scratches of the idle drinker. Some may have been the
tally marks of the less trusting; of the landlord or themselves,
it mattered not. Robson apologised for the paucity of fare
available: veal and ham pie, one leg of lamb, a hasty pudding
and vegetables. He gave an excuse which I did not register
beyond the word late. I cared not if it were the lateness of
the hour or his mother, I confess. We spurned the hasty pud-
ding, I because I had not eaten porridge for twenty-five years
and never would again, and Maccabi, I presumed, because of
the arcane dietary restrictions of his creed.
Maccabi took his leave after pressing on me a final glass

40
 EWAN LAWRIE

of port and extracting my promise that I would avail myself

of his services as driver of the phaeton at ten the following
morning. He assured me the ride to John Brown & Son in
Seahouses would be no less comfortable than the stagecoach,
and that he would then answer such questions as came within
his remit. I should like to say I slept dreamless until the dawn,
but the dream of Bedlam and its gory end visited me, as every
night it lately had, though in all conscience I know not why.

41
 Chapter Six

At five past the hour of ten, I presented myself in front of The

Dirty Bottles. The phaeton and Maccabi were not waiting,
but drew up the instant I appeared on the stoop. It rankled
that Maccabi had not been inconvenienced; I consoled
myself, however, that he had merely driven the horse once
more around the triangle of Fenkle Street, Market Street and
the Narrowgate to give the impression of an ill-mannered
tardiness. He did not descend to offer a hand in boarding or
loading my admittedly sparse luggage, just smiled his saintly
smile. I cursed him silently.
The Great North Road out of Alnwick offers a view of
Alnwick Castle from the Lion Bridge, which, as Maccabi
began to inform me, was designed by a Robert Adam. The
most striking and ludicrous thing about the bridge was the
rigid tail of the Percy Lion decorating it, pointing our way
along the road. No one knew if the rigidity of the tail was
some visual joke in dubious taste or an indication of the
sculptors shortcomings in his art.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Maccabi seemed remarkably well informed about the

ancestral seat of the Percy family and began a tedious disqui-
sition about their employment of a gardener whose given
name of Lancelot was scarcely less ridiculous than his sobri-
quet of Ability or Capacity or some combination of the two.
My escort seemed completely unperturbed by my disdain
for him, continuing with his inconsequential chatter as
though he were entertaining a small child or infirm relative.
At one point he reined the horse into the side of the road, just
beside a copse. He sat silent in contemplation, for which I
was most grateful. It did not last; he began to list the avian
riches of our serendipitous stop. Yaffles, screechers, boom-
birds, ragamuffins, thistlefinches and I knew not what. If I
had had but one of my yellow scarves about my person,
rather than in my baggage, I should have despatched him
forthwith, no matter what riches awaited in Gibbous House.
As Maccabi brought our carriage to a halt at Seahouses, I
withdrew my recently acquired timepiece from my waistcoat
and was quite surprised that it was merely the first hour of
the afternoon. My travelling companions prattle had per-
formed some alchemy that made the journey seem as long as
Moses own to Canaan. King Street, though enjoying the
benefit of several streets between itself and the sea front, was
in the grip of a North Sea fret, which had soaked my outer
garments instantaneously. Whenever I breathed in, I could
taste the sea on the back of my tongue and felt as chilled as
only the North Sea Spring can make one.
Number 11 looked to have been built about the turn of the

43
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

century. The windows glass panes were small and dark with
dirt, and the bow of the window of uncertain geometry. The
door appeared far too ornate for the simplicity of the build-
ing: it was of two leaves, and the escutcheon around the lock
was brass, in the shape of a lions head. There was something
exotic in the lines, as though the brass had been fashioned in
Persia or beyond. The wood was painted a vibrant green that
was quite out of place in this Northumbrian seaside town,
and the knocker on the door was a miniature, tarnished ver-
sion of the benighted lion from Adams bridge. I presumed
that this was a later addition to the door furniture.
Maccabi grasped the rigid tail, lifted the knocker high and
let it fall, making the solid sound of a beadles staff on a sack,
or the back of a boy. Both leaves swung open to reveal a
figure as wide as it was tall, or rather, short. Atop the rotund
torso was a head fully as round. Cherubic features boasted
the red cheeks of the happy or a devotee of fortified wines.
Bold, greying whiskers seemed an extension of the fringe of
hair circling his pate. The mans waistcoat was stained and
misbuttoned and one of his lapels hung by a thread. A ragged
shirtsleeve emerged from the cuff of his frock coat. Maccabi
chose to perform the obsequies on the threshold, whether
intent on insult or no, I was unsure.
Mr Brown, sir, may I present Mr Alasdair Moffat, late
of... He eyed me for a moment.
London, I said.
Quite so. London.
John Browns voice seemed to come from a deep pit.

44
 EWAN LAWRIE

Rough and harsh as the voice of a man half strangled, or

hanged, it seemed no more likely to emerge from his cherub
mouth as from that of a woman or a child. He gestured, bid-
ding the two of us enter. Inside the hallway stood more
furnishings than in an auction house. Eclectic pieces of vari-
and purpose: tallboys, commodes, secretaries, dining chairs
and one long table on its end, the legs offering us an embrace
as we squeezed our way into Browns office.
It was with some relief that I observed that a functional
number of chairs, a solitary large bookcase and one desk
comprised the furniture in that room. More disconcerting
were the walls, if indeed any such lay behind the innumerable
framed items. Portraits, landscapes, life paintings, sporting
scenes, cartoons, sketches, incomplete works and several
other canvases were nailed to whatever lay behind them. It
was such a riot of images that I almost felt nauseous.
I was put in mind of Greek symbols seen long ago on the
flyleaves of books produced from a large and dusty trunk, by
a man doomed by encountering me, so many years ago:

(From the Library of Moffat)

I fixed my attention on Brown. With conspiratorial elbows on

his desk an expensive piece but as marked and worn as a
pawnbrokers counter he began to steeple his fingers in an
attempt to strike a more prepossessing attitude. Sadly, his
manual proportions echoed those of the rest of his person,

45
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

and his chubby hands resembled more the dome of St Pauls

than any towering spire. However, the voice from the pit
ensured no levity, much less mockery, at least from my part.
His hanged-mans voice, full of gravel and brimstone,
put one in mind of the very deepest of pits; I myself counte-
nanced no Gehenna beneath my feet, believing rather more
in those hells I had seen above the ground. Still, I could imag-
ine his voice as that of Malphas or Halphas escaped from
Solomons urn.
But no demon ever spoke words of such circumlocutory
tedium, punctuated with harsh clearings of the throat, sniffs
and snorts, with ahs and ums of uncountable number. I
remember clearly how he began:
Ah... Mr... Moffat, is it? Um... Of course it is, yes.
At which point he broke into a round of percussive
non-verbal noises. As the unmusical rasp went on, in so far
as I was able to gather, the man was attempting to establish
my bona fides without asking me to prove it in any way.
Maccabi retained an air of bored insouciance throughout.
When satisfied although I was unsure by what means as
to that good faith, Brown began to explain the legal points
surrounding the inheritance. He elaborated on entail, detail
and for all that I could make head or tail of any of it, the
devils tail as well. Fortunately, the property had only lately
emerged from chancery. The property, as he continued to
refer to the estate throughout, had passed to Coble himself
by a somewhat circuitous route, though he vouchsafed that
Maccabi would describe it when he escorted me to inspect it.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Browns acolyte stood by at some unseen signal. Taking

possession of a most prodigious bundle of papers of varied
antiquity, he proceeded to place them one folio at a time
before me and bade me peruse each one with diligence. Some
required marks or declarations, some did not. I confess I
passed into numb oblivion, and the inky words ran before my
eyes as if newly writ with no sand to hand. The last bore
merely an anodyne form of words:

As heretofore agreed, I pledge full payment

Signed:
Alasdair Moffat

I was on the point of appending that much-practised sig-

nature, when Brown asked for a final time, Ah... you are
quite sure... um... that you are, indeed... Coughs and phleg-
monous movements quite interrupted him, until he recovered
himself enough to say: Alasdair Moffat?
That I surely was. It had been the work of moments to
become Alasdair Moffat, a decision taken as soon as the
thought was formulated. The symbols flashed across my
minds eye again. As to who I was before that, the name is
gone and all who would own to it too. That party left a mid-
dling estate near Largs at scarce eleven years, following the
unfortunate death of a younger sister. Her mother, being
recently delivered of a further son, descended into peculiar
hysteria in the presence of the elder. The older boy was des-
patched with a trunk to the care of a maternal great-aunt in

47
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Edinburgh, shortly after the girls funeral. How the father

must have loved his wife to exile his beloved eldest son so!
Senga Campbell, the great-aunt, lived and worked in the
Royal Edinburgh Hospital, and had done so since its opening
in the previous decade. By the time she received the boy, she
was indistinguishable in dress and deportment from some of
the patients in Doctor Andrew Duncans Model Asylum
and as capable of his care.
The boy received no further schooling, of course, but made
himself useful in minor ways. Chamber pots were hardly a
challenge, but he found the antics of the genuine lunatics a
diversion. One fellow was exceedingly odd: for days at a
time, on the opening of the judas hole, his handsome face
would appear; cultured tones would explain reasonably that
due to some unfortunate misunderstanding he, Doctor J____,
was incarcerated in error.
Less often, but with lunar regularity, his face would appear
at the hatch contorted with rage and insanity and he would
try to bite the boy through the bars, as he teased him with
some beef on a stick. Several years passed in such amusement
until the day his true education began, the day an Alasdair
Moffat was consigned to Bedlam by his relatives.

(From the Library of Moffat)

Taking the pen proffered by Maccabi, who seemed to have

produced both it and an inkwell from behind his coat-tails, I

48
 EWAN LAWRIE

signed Moffat with a flourish. It was a model of authenticity.

Browns smile did not reach his eyes and he seized this last
document with unseemly haste, I felt. The ink, unblotted by
paper or sand, ran freely, creating unlikely shapes on the
vellum. The notary began to take just such pains with the
papers that he had encouraged fromme. In such degree was
he absorbed that I could feel his very presence withdraw from
the room, as it were. Maccabi caught my eye and raised a
sardonic brow over his own. I lifted my regard and to avoid
any nausea fixed my eye securely to a canvas nailed behind
Browns right shoulder.
The edges of the canvas were curling and appeared singed.
The colours were dark and the draughtsmanship and use of
colour were familiar in style, as was the content. However, I
was sure the medium was not so. It was a painting in oils,
depicting a room such as many I had visited. A moll, dressed
in fashions over a century old, was being attended by her
maid, an old and syphilitic jade. The bed was her only major
piece of furniture, and a cat posed suggesting the molls own
posture. A witchs hat and birch rods on the wall suggested
either black magic or that her profession required her to
indulge some tastes out of the common. On the wall behind
her I noted the artist had captured the very tawdry tints of
portraits torn from ballad broadsheets; I fancied I could scry
the appellation MacHeath under the one and Sacheverell
under the other. The symbolism of the two philtres of quack
salve on the shelf above the likenesses was admirable. It
proved my diagnosis of the molls attendant.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

When Browns grating voice brought me once more to

myself , I was on the point of remembering just whose hand
I recognised in the painting.
Ah... Umm... Moffat. Did you want to repair at once to
your... ah... property? Maccabi will be delighted to accom-
pany you.
That wont be necessary, Brown. Ill find my way easily
enough.
Oh, but it will, Maccabi interjected smugly. You will
recall signing my contract of employment, sir? I did not wish
to leave the house after so long as its factotum, and am
overjoyed that you are desirous of my continued employment
as such.
I could have fed the insufferable prig his eyeballs with a
Coburg-pattern spoon. The documents I had failed to read
were clasped to Browns chest as like to put one in mind of
corsets made of paper. The man himself remained mute and
motionless, and, for the second time in less than a week, I
found myself propelled from a place of business without
courtesy or dismissal. Maccabi attempted a light touch on
my elbow as we crossed the emerald portal, but the some-
what heavier touch of mine on his ribs thwarted his
presumption. He did not gratify me with a grunt, but merely
looked me in the eye as any equal might and said, I thought...
Perhaps... a tailor?
I was too surprised at his effrontery not to reply, Here? I
had supposed that Alnwick would house the very nearest!
In that you are quite correct, Mr Moffat. However, I have

50
 EWAN LAWRIE

taken the liberty of summoning one such to the Coble Inn to

await our pleasure this very afternoon. He would not depart
without seeking leave to do so, I think.
Had I not already taken against him so, I would have
admired his foresight.
Coble?
He threw back his head and laughed his unmusical laugh.
A natural enough name for an inn in a fishing village! It is
the local dialect for a fishermans boat.
And my benefactors given name? How serendipitous!
Maccabi eyed me closely, and in a voice devoid of humour,
declared, There is little of chance in names, Mr Moffat.

51
 Chapter Seven

The Coble Inn was as mean a hovel as ever I had seen. On

the weathered sign that hung acrook from rusted iron outside
was a symbol, and not the fishing boat one might have
expected. As arcane as it was, the symbol reproduced here did
seem uncommon familiar. I was unable to place its prove-
nance at the time, however.

The inns sandstone walls had never felt the masons chisel,
and it stood, or rather stooped, at the point where Main
Street touched the shore. No afternoon sun had sweetened
the salt spray from the rollers crashing in from the North Sea,
and for that reason alone I welcomed the low accommoda-
tion as a haven from the elements.
Inside the inn was a single, long room; all the carpentry
was rough and unfinished, even the counter behind which the

52
 EWAN LAWRIE

landlord stood. He continued to stand, mute, when I enquired

after the tailor. Only the dart of his eyes to a darkened corner
convinced me that he was not some tall Galatea into which
the carpenter had poured all the dedication missing from the
furnishings. Turning to Maccabi, I allowed that our host was
a talkative cove. Maccabi grinned and said, Hardly that.
John Bill is a mute, hasnt spoken a word since he washed up
on the sand outside. His brother has never been found, nor
even a plank from their boat. Coble placed him here, an
uncommon generous act, I should say.
And so would I, I replied, resolving to ascertain if Coble
had left me any interest in this property, and to knock it down
if he had.
A bent figure had risen as best it could from behind
another rustic table. A dark and vigorous voice emerged, its
beauty marked by an accent that was testament to the wan-
derings of its owners tribe.
Elijah Salomons, gentlemans tailor, at your service, Mr
Moffat.
I eyed Maccabis old-fashioned dress and remarked, I am
sincere in hoping, despite the evidence of my ears, that this is
not your tailor.
His lips grew thin; I had at last punctured his poise.
No, sir, he is not. Mr Salomons is the best tailor north of
Newcastle and south of Selkirk and numbers the Duke of
Northumberland among his clients. I am most appreciative
of his attending to you here in Seahouses.

53
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

I offered a smile to my servant before turning back to

the tailor.
Now, tailor, take my measure, while you can.
Salomons busied himself about my person with chalk, pins
and a bolt of dark material I found crude and rustic.
It is for the patterns, Mr Moffat. I assure you I shall
choose the best of cloth to make your clothes, but I could not
bring every bolt from Alnwick, I regret to say.
Glancing over at Maccabi, I saw the beginnings of a smirk,
but he averted his gaze from me and engaged the mute in
a monologue.
John, John. Join me in a porter, would you?
John Bills eyes rolled alarmingly as he gave a savage nod
of affirmation. He poured two tankards and I noted none was
offered to me.
A game, a game, John. To while away my employers fit-
ting, wilt thou?
The same exploration of every nook of the eyesockets fol-
lowed by a brutal head movement came as answer. The dumb
figure moved slowly from behind the counter and both men
repaired to the opposite corner of the room to a table with
nine skittles atop it in three rows of three. The table gave the
impression of an over-large fruiterers box set on four high
legs. A stout wooden pole stood in the centre of the box.
Attached to the pole by a link-chain was a heavy-looking
wooden ball about the size of a plum. Maccabi, still address-
ing his mute companion in the same jovial tones, which, in

54
 EWAN LAWRIE

truth, I could not credit nor countenance, Ha, John, take you
the first foray among the clothmakers.
After his ritual of assent, John Bill seized the ball, drew
back the length of his arm and let fly at the skittles. It must
have taken a throw of some skill, and an unerring eye, to
cause the bolus to miss so completely, not only on the first
pass but on all subsequent journeys through the pins until it
came to rest against the pole.
Bad luck, John! A farthing every one down, ho?
The silent giant moved his head in the lateral plane, and
held up a single gnarled finger as knotted as a branch.
A penny? Maccabis eyes were wide. Gladly, John, on
your head be it!
Maccabis shy was a delicate thing, the wooden ball passed
through clean, carved a parabola in the air beyond the box
and returning at such an angle as to make the square of pins
a rhombus struck a glancing blow at a pin on the point of
the arrangement. It toppled slowly and fell at right angles,
knocking down some four skittles.
John Bills carved mouth turned up slightly at one corner
before he began his nod and eye-rolls. Taking the wooden ball
between thumb and forefinger, he gave it the merest push
towards the skittles. It struck just one, which rocked from side
to side like a staggering drunk before clattering into another,
causing that to strike still another and so on until all five
remaining were rolling in the box. The tall figure twitched up
the corner of his mouth once more and held his forefinger up.
It was a pleasure to see Maccabi fumbling in his pockets

55
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

for the penny. I noticed the tailor, too, had been fascinated by
the game as he had left off his sizing of my figure. I looked
down at him.
Of course, you know what they call this game, Salomons?
He set to again with his pins and chalk, shaking his head.
No, sir, indeed I dont.
I told him, Its known as Deil Among the Tailors. Perhaps
it should be the other way about?
Several pins fell from his lips and were lost between the
coarsely fitted floorboards. The tailor assured me I would be
in possession of a gentlemans wardrobe within a week and,
as he had taken a pattern of my feet and various measure-
ments below the knee, he also assured me of footwear to
complement it. The man gathered his materials and scuttled
out into the night like a cockroach startled by the sudden
lifting of a carpet.
I looked over at Maccabi, hunched over a second tankard
of porter. John Bill had put my retainer so far out of counte-
nance that I considered revising my plan to knock down the
inn, should I become its owner.
Come, Maccabi. Are we ever to reach Gibbous House, or
have you some further nonsense to keep me here?
By your leave, Mr Moffat, we have one more call to make.
It were better done before visiting the house.
Well, lets on with it, man.
His eyes darted to one side and he looked over my shoul-
der as he spoke. Begging your pardon, Mr Moffat, but in
truth we cannot take possession today.

56
 EWAN LAWRIE

Why not? It is mine by right even now, is it not?

Most assuredly it is. The tide, however, will keep us from
it.
Tide? Youre babbling, Maccabi.
Sir, we must needs visit Lindisfarne and the Reverend
Ezekiel Harbinger of the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin.
And for why? What has this to do with me?
Regrettably, some of his smug self-confidence returned as
he said, You were counselled to read the papers, Mr Moffat.
The journey is unavoidable, I fear, and we must make haste
if the causeway is to be open for our crossing.
My watch showed a quarter before four. Maccabi inti-
mated that the tide would be in before seven. I strode out of
the door and we boarded the carriage; the horse looked as
miserable as only a stabled beast can when left to the bitter
elements. When I questioned Maccabis liberal application of
the whip to the nags back, I was informed that the journey
was seventeen miles.
The road north was poor as we took not the turnpike, but
a road more used to the farmers cart and his labourers feet.
My faithful retainer eyed me, averting his gaze when it caught
mine. Several times he seemed on the point of putting an
uncomfortable question, but immediately thought better of it.
It gladdened my heart that he seemed to be grasping the true
nature of our relative stations at last.
When I had enjoyed his silence and discomfiture for some
two hours, we reached three cottages and a church beside a
sheep farm, which the man informed me was named Beal. We

57
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

turned onto the causeway road and after two further miles
the phaeton rolled onto the muddied logs of the causeway.
The North Sea nibbled at the edges of the primitive crossing
and I asked him if he thought we were in time to complete it.
He thought for a moment and then enquired whether I
could swim.

58
 Chapter Eight

Complete the crossing we did, although the nag pulling us

stepped high and skittish as the waves lapped at his cannon
bones. Maccabis silence allowed me to ponder something
that had perplexed me since his unexpected arrival at The
Olde Cross. How had he known I would try to avoid his
reception? Why was it in his or Browns interest that I should
take up my inheritance? I realised that I had been careless in
not reading every pen scratch on the papers presented to me
and had missed the opportunity to quiz the notary on the
peculiar wording of Cobles will. Regret at my own arrogance
was of no use. Plainly, I would have to dissemble, pretend to
the servant that he had my confidence as I took up residence
in my new home.
The Northumbrian coast north of the mouth of the River
Aln is as wild and bleak as any place in England, but never
in my life had I seen so desolate a landscape as that on the
island of Lindisfarne. Maccabi told me the lands were once
populated by monks. What had possessed them to retreat to

59
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

such a place? I would as soon have seen the face of the Devil
than the Almighty in the raging of the sea on the rocks. It was
already quite dark as the carriage rolled wearily to a stop, as
if it were as exhausted as the horse.
The Church of Saint Mary the Virgin seemed to me a
strange name for an Anglican institution, but the building
itself betrayed no extravagant popery in its architecture. It
was a simple rectangle, with a tower rather than a spire. It
was raining again, and I was mightily relieved that the church
doors were not locked, though they were heavy with the
rain. There were few candles, the pews were simple and
void of hassocks or cushions and the stone flags bore the wet
footprints of the recently prayerful, although the church
appeared empty.
Naturally, several of the stained-glass windows limned the
eponymous Virgin, but the light was so poor as to prevent the
discernment of anything more than dark pools of colour. I
never set foot in a place of religion without feeling a certain
distaste. For want of anything better to do, I approached the
lectern at the front of the nave and looked at the heavy Bible.
It was open at Matthew 12:40. The verse was marked;

For as Jonah was three days and three nights in the

belly of the whale, so will the Son of Man be three days
and three nights in the heart of the earth

I slammed the Bible shut, never having cared much for the
opinion of revenue men. Besides, there was little in the Holy

60
 EWAN LAWRIE

Writ that I cared for, of course. A thin, ascetic figure in a

cassock emerged from the vestry.
One should not treat any book thus, much less the word
of God, sir. The good-humoured nature of the voice robbed
it of reproof, but I found myself apologising nonetheless.
I have ever been clumsy, Reverend... or is it Father?
Once again Maccabi became a passive observer, not deign-
ing to introduce this strange cove but instead studying some
stone-carved New Testament admonition.
As you please, sir, though I am vicar of this parish. I am
Ezekiel Harbinger, but you may call me Ezekiel, if you so
desire.
With a dark look at the d____ fellow Maccabi, I made
myself known to the vicar.
Oh, at last you have come! May I suggest we conduct
our business in the more comfortable accommodations of
the vicarage?
He laughed and I felt the rage in me. I thanked the stars
above that I had learned to curb my passions, or at least to wait
for the opportunity to gratify them in safety and leisure. Mac-
cabi and I followed the vicar through the vestry and out of a
mean wooden door. The vicarage itself was John Constables
idea of a countrymans cottage and, I thought, just as authentic.
Somewhat more recent than the church, your home,
Ezekiel?
To his credit his face acquired a little colour. It was built
a few years ago, thanks to the magnanimity of your late bene-
factor, Mr Moffat.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

On opening the door we found ourselves immediately in a

parlour, where we were not alone. A young woman of per-
haps eighteen years stood demurely in the clothes of a ladys
companion or governess. Her colour and embonpoint hinted
at pleasure at some future time, while her demeanour in-
sisted such time would not be soon. She gave a curtsey as
Harbinger announced her name as Ellen Pardoner. Harbinger
bade we visitors sit and despatched the girl to bring sherry
and seed cake.
The vicar of St Mary the Virgin eyed me closely, as if char-
acter could be read from outward appearance. Maccabi
continued as mute as John Bill, averting his gaze as Miss
Pardoner delivered his libation. I would soon have been quite
out of temper had not Harbinger finally cleared his throat
and begun. Ah... Mr Moffat, with inheritance comes oft
responsibilities; particular duties, if you will.
I interrupted the man with some heat. Ill not be gulled
of money by idle promises of salvation hereafter, so if you
have me here to beg my indulgence Ill gladly disappoint
you, sir.
Again, the corpses face took a little colour. Oh, dear me,
no... dont think... No, its quite another matter, sir.
Maccabi interjected, in a voice replete with annoyance and
misery in equal measure. For the love of God Tell him! And
then he stared once more off towards the vicars bookcases.
Harbinger held out a hand to the young woman. Ellen
Pardoner is a ward of the estate, at least until she reaches
majority. As such she is...

62
 EWAN LAWRIE

I smiled at him and finished his utterance for him. A most

particular duty that falls to me, I think.
Maccabi dropped his glass, spilling sherry on the floor-
boards.
Both Maccabi and I were reluctant to impose on the
churchmans hospitality. I failed to see any practical disposi-
tion of the vicarages two bedrooms between three gentle-
men and the young woman. Harbinger, though, was in-
sistent. He proposed overnighting himself in the vestry, as
he had done in the past, and I proposed that I stay there
myself, wishing neither to be closely accommodated with
my servant nor interrupted again by the devotions of the
devout. Once posited, this plan was accepted. I noted with
interest the admixture of distress and delight at the arrange-
ment on Maccabis features. One could only surmise as to
its cause.

At midnight I was in the cramped room of the vestry, under

vestments that hung from hooks in the absence of an armoire.
Also deficient was any kind of strongbox: the churchs entire
collection of plate was in a brass-bound chest, whose key was
conveniently in the padlock. It turned easily, but the hasp was
not so compliant.
The plate itself was a disappointment, tarnished and thin.
I contented myself by removing the communion chalice and
filling it from one of the bottles of red wine, neatly stacked
on the floor in the corner. It was no fine vintage, rather some-
thing bottled in a wooden outbuilding on a Breton farm,

63
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

rough as the callouses on the grape-pickers hands. Perhaps

in consubstantiation the flavour would improve, but I
doubted it.
Once again my mind returned to John Browns behaviour
earlier in the day. He had seemed most desirous of at once
confirming and yet not confirming my identity as Alasdair
Moffat. How could he possibly know anything of Alasdair
Moffats antecedents? Swilling the wine in the communion
chalice, I thought back on the peculiar circumstances of Alas-
dair Moffats death and resurrection in me.
It was true that the man then named Alasdair Moffat had
educated me, and well. When I became his companion during
his stay in the hospital, he used many names, totally con-
vinced of the validity of each. I learned something of the
Greeks from Socrates and Alexander, experienced the gran-
deur that was Rome from Martial, Trajan and Hadrian.
Figures of high culture were on constant parade through the
sick mans psyche, and I learned far more than I wished about
Michelangelo, James I and the Duke of Buckingham.
This chameleons education had been such as would have
graced a Newton or any polymath, and yet the man was only
six years my senior. I was of a height with him, and we were
most remarkable similar in outward appearance, sufficiently
so as to make one think us cousins of such consanguinity as
to prohibit the relations we had in the latter days, even were
we man and woman.
I spent so much time with him that, to my certain knowl-
edge, the man known as Moffat never saw the Medical

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Superintendent, at least not while he was alive. When his dead,

sightless eyes met those of the henchman the patients knew
as the Keeper, the latter was quite unaware of their owner.
It was only a short time after the madmans arrival in the
asylum that delivery was made of the seamans trunk. The
supervision of its delivery fell to me, as much did in dealings
with the man. The rough porters who brought the trunk
handed me a key on an iron chain. I gave it to Moffat, who
placed it around his neck as though it were an aldermans
chain of office.
No sooner were the deliverers of the trunk away than it
was opened. Without removal of the chain, Moffat knelt
before it and opened it. The expression on his face was that
of a man surprised at a mound of jewels, gold and coin,
though I saw it contained nothing but books and parchment,
and those in poor condition. Had I but known then, as I came
later to learn, that many of these tomes were thought lost to
the world, why then I should have made better use of that
knowledge in the fullness of time.
From that moment on, we would take some work from the
portmanteau library of the trunk every day, and peruse it
carefully with whichever persona presented itself in Moffats
tortured mind at the time. On the flyleaf of each and every
one was inked:

(From the Library of Moffat).

On the day of Resurrection he drew out three heavy tomes:

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Fama Fraternitatis, The Encyclopedia of the Brethren of

Purity and Avicennas Canon of Medicine. One in German
and two in Arabic. Would that I had known then a little more
of the first two works. In contrast to other days, Moffat for
once it was he who addressed me laid the books aside on
the cot, locked his trunk, and said, My Jonathan, I have been
your David these long years. Wouldst thou be mine and I your
Jonathan at last?
I had endured his attentions for some three years, but
never once had I achieved such transports as he himself did
while using me as his catamite. This was a new development;
it would surely be a novel experience for me to use him in the
same manner, and I assured him I was willing.
He begged me to wear his own apparel and allow him to
wear mine. I believed it was merely a spice for his jaded
palate, even as he placed his chain and key around my neck.
Use him I did, and with no small pleasure. In the small death
after the act he smote me mightily on the crown and I knew
no more.
Some hours later I awoke to see the purpled face of...
whom? Moffat? Surely I was Moffat, as I wore his clothes
and had his key around my neck. This other creature lay
supine on the floor of the cell, the colour of his face testimony
to the apoplexy that had carried him off. Stiffly, and mightily
nauseous from the blow to my head, I shuffled to the door.
Taking care not to move the corpse, I removed a ring of keys
from what had once been my own coat, opened the door and
bellowed for help. In an hour, an attendant came; I knew

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 EWAN LAWRIE

his face, but he saw my clothes and took no account of the

physiognomy above them. This ruffian seized the keys from
my hand, forced me inward and locked me in with the corpse.
I know not what period of time passed before the Keeper
and his orderlies arrived. He checked the corpse and pro-
nounced him as dead as I knew him to be. An enlightened
man, he deigned to quiz me, a madman, as to what had
happened.
I told him, more or less, allowing the evidence before him
to define the actors and their roles. He left convinced that the
Largs boy had perished of a fit after assaulting Alasdair
Moffat, illegitimate son of the Duke of B______.
It took me very much longer to convince him that the blow
to Moffats head had driven out the insanity. Some three
years in fact.

67
 Chapter Nine

I awoke in Harbingers overstuffed armchair in the vestry. By

the light of a guttering candle, I could read on my recently
acquired timepiece that the hour was a little after four. The
nightmare had been as ever it was, save for one small detail.
Until this occasion, my eyes would spring open at the point
I looked down at the corpses empurpled face; a solitary drop
of blood would navigate the contours of my head to splash
on the sightless eyeball of the man who was no longer
Moffat. This time, however, I found that the drop of blood
fell on a face still more well known to me: mine own.
There were three empty bottles of the dreadful wine to
greet Harbinger when he arrived a little after seven. Despite
them, my disposition had neither improved nor worsened.
His piping voice invited me to a kedgeree breakfast in one
hour in the cottage. I was free to avail myself of the cottages
amenities for my toilette, should I so desire. The clergyman
eyed the empty bottles of wine, but said nothing. Picking up
the communion chalice from the floor, I threw it to him,

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 EWAN LAWRIE

noting with pleasure that a few drops of the liquid splashed

the white of his collar as he fumbled it.
Ah well, only fitting that priestly vestments be stained
with the Blood of Christ, Reverend? For answer the vestry
door slammed shut.
Breakfast was served in a dining room that would have
been commodious for a troupe of circus dwarves, if they had
numbered fewer than six. We three gentlemen seated our-
selves at a Lilliputian table in chairs of corresponding size.
Miss Pardoner hovered by the sideboard on which rested a
copper chafing dish better than any of the thin silver plate
owned by the parish in the church next door. The kedgeree
was a fine example, but the fish, though smoked, was not
haddock. I complimented the household on the fine flavours
of the dish.
Miss Pardoner prepared it, Harbinger said. I fear I shall
miss her skill in the kitchen when I return to my bachelor
state.
I raised an eyebrow. In the kitchen?
Harbinger coloured and began to choke on a fishbone.
Maccabi struck him several hearty blows between the
scapulae.
My ward, far from running from the room in high dud-
geon, turned on me an icy rage. Were I a man, sir, I should
have satisfaction of you. Though I doubt you would treat a
man as you have just done me.
Perhaps, I said. The colour in her face made her suddenly
attractive, and the prospect of having her under my dominion

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

more pleasant still. It amused me, too, that she imagined I

regarded any honour worthy of defending in a duel. The very
notion seemed as outmoded as dancing a gavotte, and just as
pointless, in my view.
In any event, your talents in the kitchen are to be com-
mended, if this be a sample of them. What is the fish? Do
tell. I smiled at her, which drew a murderous look from Mac-
cabi, who seemed more affronted by the pleasantry than my
insult.
With remarkable self-possession, Miss Pardoner replied,
The fish were Craster kippers, Mr Moffat. Smoked herring,
caught and cured in town. As Northumbrian as the Coquet
river.
As you yourself? I asked.
Sadly, no. I belong here as little as you do, sir.
Yes, I savoured the prospect of future days with Miss Ellen
Pardoner.
Harbinger survived the lodging of the fishbone in his
gullet, despite Maccabis enthusiastic efforts to remove it via
brute force applied to the dorsal region. The tableau cheered
me quite as much as the fine breakfast, and then Maccabi
addressed me directly for the first time in more than twelve
hours. Mr Moffat, we must be going if we are to catch the
tide. Might I suggest we leave Miss Pardoner to arrange her
affairs here. I shall of course arrange suitable means of
transport for your... ward in Seahouses, on our way to your
new residence.
I should say, Maccabi, that I prefer that Miss Pardoner

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 EWAN LAWRIE

accompany us forthwith. I am sure the reverend is familiar

enough with the young womans belongings to prepare them
for consignment later.
The mans incongruously jolly voice stumbled over an
affirmation, and I laughed.
I have not the slightest doubt of that, Reverend.
It seemed for a moment as though Maccabi had not
removed every piscatorial impediment to the reverends res-
piration, but he recovered himself.

Maccabi and I had travelled side by side to Lindisfarne in the

driving seat of the phaeton. The carriage was no high-flyer,
thank goodness, as that design did not allow for a driver.
Ours was a mail coach, mounted on mail coach springs,
and as such it afforded a slightly less harum-scarum ride to
the passengers and the opportunity to further discom-
mode Maccabi by sharing the rear seat with the interesting
Ellen Pardoner.
I myself handed the young woman up into the phaeton,
while Maccabi found something of interest in the Church of
Saint Marys bell tower. No sooner was I in my seat than
Maccabi laid on the slightly recovered nag with a will. His
impetuosity merely allowed me a closer acquaintance with
Miss Pardoners undoubted charms. She shrank quite away
from me, and I studied her for a moment. Ellen Pardoner was
not beautiful, her nose was slightly out of true and her eyes
appeared inherited from a shipwrecked sailor of the Armada,
which is to say as brown as a colts. Nonetheless, I felt myself

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

drawn to her, although I must allow that some of the attrac-

tion lay in the possibility of baiting Maccabi.
So, Miss Pardoner, I began, with a look at Maccabis
ramrod back. How come you to be quite the most attractive
part of my inheritance?
She lifted her chin. Mr Moffat, I am your ward and not
your chattel.
Quite so, Miss Pardoner. But are you not promised? Has
not Northumbrian society worn away the flags leading to
your or rather my door by dint of your expectations, if
not your beauty? Have you not pledged troth?
Her eyes grew hot and I knew her for a woman of passion-
ate temperament, though she spoke calmly.
It seems to me that any expectations I might have had
now exist or do not according to your own whim, sir.
Indeed they do, Miss Pardoner, indeed they do.
Miss Pardoner begged my leave to refrain from further
conversation as she had passed a somewhat restless night.
I noted the stiffness about Maccabis back subside as she
did so, and I asked if her repose had been disturbed by
an unwanted visitor. The ramrod returned in place of
Maccabis spine, and I was content to continue the journey
in silence.
We jounced once more into Seahouses and ere the wheels
had stopped spinning, Maccabi had alighted and handed
Miss Pardoner down from the phaeton outside the garish
green door of the notarys office. My retainer produced a key
from a pocket and let our party in. I was quite intrigued it

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 EWAN LAWRIE

seemed that relations between the notary and my employee

were closer than might be expected. We negotiated the auc-
tioneers warehouse of a corridor and Maccabi stopped at the
door to Browns office and held up his hand.
Miss Pardoner. Would you be so good as to remain with-
out? He declined to give me instruction; I supposed he
knew I would not comply. It was plain that my ward was
equally disinclined.
Placing my hand on her arm, I said, Please, Im sure my
servant has his reasons.
The utterance served the two-fold purpose of keeping the
young woman out and enraging each to my satisfaction.
The Brewsters Kaleidoscope of images that covered the
rooms walls again induced a dizzy nausea in me, until my
wandering eyes were arrested by the sight of Brown slumped
on his desk. I noticed the pungent smell of the heavenly
demon and the tell-tale pipe in the notarys hand.
By his face you would not know it, but d___ me that voice
must come from somewhere.
I looked at Maccabi for confirmation but answer came
there none. He merely set about righting the cherubic figure
in his chair, removing the pipe from his hand and hiding it in
a drawer. It was full of papers as varied and jumbled as the
ones I had been duped into signing.
This gulling by border rustics still rankled but, as a man of
means, I expected opportunity enough to pay them out. Mac-
cabi raised the sash to dissipate the poppys miasma. He
looked to me and pointed at the figure in the chair.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

He must have taken his pipe late today, Maccabi said. He

keeps office from two in the afternoon until six, as a rule.
Then he opened the door to admit Miss Pardoner.
Dont be alarmed, Miss Pardoner, said the toady. Mr
Brown is having his customary nap, hell awaken soon.
I saw myself how the young woman sniffed the air deli-
cately almost imperceptibly before a tiny curl manifested
at the corner of her mouth. The woman became more fasci-
nating at every turn.
Brown emerged rapidly out of the poppys spell. There
were no cloudy-eyed moments of incomprehension, he
became aware immediately that his secret was now known to
at least one more, and he sighed. How unfortunate!
How so? I enquired, and Maccabi gave me a sharp look
but held his tongue.
I do not care to be had at a disadvantage by a fellow such
as you, Mr Moffat.
His rasping voice scraped any respect from the title, leav-
ing mister in the company of choicer epithets he might have
used but for the presence of Miss Pardoner. His cherubs chin
slumped to his chest, and he said but one word: What?
Maccabi started and placed a hand on the notarys arm. I
lifted a finger toward the Jew and shook my head.
Naturally, I would like possession of the papers I was
foolish enough to sign. All of them.
Naturally, Maccabi echoed.
Brown said nothing, nodded and withdrew the disorderly
sheaf of papers from the drawer. The opium pipe fell to the

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 EWAN LAWRIE

floor and its blue and white porcelain bowl shattered. I

wondered where the opium lamp was, and how he had
sequestered it before the opium took him. My eyes must have
been looking for it, for Brown said, It is behind the Hogarth.
Take a look.
At first I did not understand. Then I caught sight of the
canvas depicting the moll at her toilette in a bawdy house. It
was not a painting that I knew of. I approached and saw that
the two bent nails holding one side of it to the wall were loose
to the touch. Behind the canvas was a hollowing out of the
plaster wall, and a beautiful example of an opium lamp on a
tray of beautifully lacquered wood. It was as exquisite a piece
of Chinoiserie as ever I had seen. How such a thing had
arrived in an obscure notarys office in Northumbria, much
less the painting, I could not begin to hazard. I drew the
Hogarthian veil over the secret place once more, as Browns
grating voice began again.
The girl is still your ward. Do with the papers what you
will everything is a matter of record at chancery. You will
not avoid that responsibility, try as you might, Mr Moffat.
I do not intend to try anything of the sort.
I smiled at the three of them in turn before questioning
Maccabi. So, your purpose. Why are we here?
But it was Brown who answered. Miss Pardoner is here,
but I assume her effects are not, unless you found cartage on
Lindisfarne. Jedediah, I will see to it. Get you on your way.
Before Shabbat.
Again, I was put out of countenance by the impropriety of

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

his relationship with Maccabi, who in truth owed fealty to

me, his employer. Perhaps they both assumed I would renege
on the contract I had unwittingly signed. If so, they were
mistaken in me; there was far more prospect of amusement
in keeping him in my employ.
Once more we were aboard the phaeton, the beleaguered
horse overburdened by the extra passenger and weary from
the exertions of the past three days. Maccabi made as if to
lay about the nag once more, but I stayed him with a sharp
word, and I was duly rewarded with glances from both him
and the young lady, though of quite different characters. I, of
course, gave not a fig for his treatment of the beast.
Not so much rolling as roiling northbound, I was surprised
to feel anticipation at the prospect of finally reaching my new
home. This thrill was dampened somewhat by the realisation
that I was travelling the same road for a third time. It was
indeed vexing to suspect that Brown, or Maccabi, had gone
to great lengths to delay my occupation of Gibbous House.
Catching Miss Pardoners eye, I enquired how she came to
be entangled in my affairs. She gave me as cool a look as
possible and retorted, Once again, I find your choice of
words unfortunate, Mr Moffat. However, if you mean to
enquire after the history of my arrival at the home of Septi-
mus Coble, I shall tell you, though it is a tale commonplace
in most parts.
Maccabis ears seemed possessed of an astounding muscu-
larity, for I could have sworn his right ear extended a
quarter-inch in the direction of us passengers. The young

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 EWAN LAWRIE

woman cleared her throat and began: My life began seven-

teen years ago, in June 183_, occasioning my mothers
deliverance from the trials of her own. I do not mean to say
that her trials were any greater than those of any wife to a
country parson with a living that kept him and his in impe-
cunity, if not outright poverty. My father would have married
again, if only to give his babe a mother, but his prospects were
no better than his situation, and society did not consider him
in want of a wife. My father did not survive beyond my fifth
year himself.
The parish seemed to be my fate, until the new incumbent
began a search for any relative of mine with the means and
inclination to take over my education. The reverend must
indeed have been a charitable man, if charity be measured in
years and not affection, for I was eleven years in age before I
was collected for delivery to Septimus Coble and his home
here in Northumbria.
I saw Mr Coble daily at dinner. He was distant but made
generous provision for me until his death. My tutors were
diligent, if uninspiring, and it seems to me I have had an edu-
cation of a kind not enjoyed by many women of any station.
In fact, I had hopes of
She broke off, remaining silent despite all my efforts to
draw her out. I was not sure if I believed a word of her tale:
she was too exotic a bloom to have sprouted from such
meagre soil.
The silence became too much for Maccabi as we passed
Bamburgh Castle, and he remarked on the renovations. The

77
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

trust has paid a penny or two for that work. More than thir-
teen centuries of history in the castle.
He had slowed the nags pace though I scarce believed
that possible to take in the majesty of the place, as he put
it. I could not but reprove him.
Maccabi, it is my belief that time and money is wasted on
the past. I am more concerned with the future, mine in par-
ticular. You would do well to look to yours. How distant lies
the house, for I am heartsick at all this delay?
His back stiffened and he grunted, Just past Budle Hall on
the way to Spindlestone.
Which answer, of course, meant nothing to me, and I told
him so.
Two miles, Mr Moffat. Two miles to your house, no
more.

78
 Chapter Ten

Budle Hall a featureless block of a house with all of the

straight lines and none of the distinguishing marks of the new
Palladian style was some half an hour behind us. Rounding
a corner, we came suddenly upon an estate wall that stretched
as far as the eye could see. I held my peace, although I was
impressed by the extent of my property. Maccabi stole a
glance to the rear and I was glad I had kept my composure.
A few furlongs further on, we stopped at a gatehouse.
What had once been a building appropriate to its function
was alarming in its present dilapidation. Not a pane of glass
remained in the windows visible from the carriage. There
were slates on the roof, but they appeared to have been
dropped from the hand of a giant and left where they fell.
Birds nests were visible through the holes in the roof, but
nary a living creature stirred or gave sound. It was as sorry a
place as ever I had seen.
Maccabi, his mood apparently improved, leaped jauntily
from his seat, producing a large ring of keys from somewhere

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

about his person. A representation of a coat of arms adorned

the gates: party per bend sinister, a unicorn rampant was the
charge in one field and the other lay bare. Whether the uni-
corn was proper or some fantastical colour I could not say; I
doubted that it was the crest of any family at all.
The key turned surprisingly easily in the lock, given the
rusted and buckled nature of the ironwork. Maccabi swung
the gates wide with a flourish, made only slightly ridiculous
by the discordant screech of the iron. Retaking his post, he
drove the phaeton within, neglecting to secure the gates
behind us.
The drive was sweeping: it curved and rose up an incline
that was injurious to the horses wellbeing. I looked upward
to the crest of a hill. What I could only assume was a dome
to rival St. Pauls appeared from the crest. It looked like noth-
ing more than the grey hump of a gargantuan crookback.
Maccabi gave his unattractive laugh.
Your demesne, Mr Moffat. Fitzgibbon House.
Fitzgibbon? I queried.
Look at it, sir. Just one of the reasons for its more custom-
ary name.
This sight was nothing to the horror that awaited on the
other side of the hill.
The disrepair into which the gatehouse had fallen was
not in evidence, but Fitzgibbon House was a conglomeration
of architectural styles that held no regard to harmony or
beauty. The greater part seemed to have been completed
when the most ridiculous extravagances of the Baroque style

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 EWAN LAWRIE

were in vogue. The dome itself was vast and, far from
forming the hub of the house, strayed disconcertingly from
the centre.
There was nothing of symmetry about the design: the east
wing boasted three towers enjoined by a cloistered walk,
while the west had four spires of differing heights and con-
struction. The materials of construction appeared to have
been chosen by a magpie. Verdigrised copper on one spire,
moorish tile on another; sandstone on that wall, yeoman
brick on this. The monstrosity had been designed by or for
a lunatic.
The grounds surrounding the house had not had the ben-
efit of a landscape gardeners eye. It was a vista of spinney
and copse interspersed with grassland, which, though not
overgrown, was home to numerous sheep. Of all the fates I
had ever imagined might befall me, gentleman farmer was not
among their number.
The horse came gratefully to a halt in front of the vast
threshold. Being Northumbria, the huge doors were flanked
by the seemingly ubiquitous lions, tails extended, though any
house by the name of Fitzgibbon could have little to do with
the Percys. Maccabi reached for the iron doorknocker,
wrought in the shape of a monkeys head. He moved it gin-
gerly, although it was clearly of significant weight and unlikely
to be damaged by his use of it. He let it give a single knock
on the heavy plate affixed to the oak door.
Am I so fortunate as to have a household full of retainers,
Maccabi?

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

He shifted from foot to foot momentarily; I had never seen

him so hesitant.
Not exactly, sir, he said. You have a cook, Mrs Gonder-
thwaite, and, well...
He did not finish: the door began to open inward without
the slightest trace of the creaks and groans I had been expect-
ing. At first it seemed that the door opened by mysterious
means, until I heard a voice emanating from about the height
of my waist. A deep and heroic baritone emerged from a
figure the size of a five-year-old. It seemed that no one in this
forsaken land possessed a voice appropriate to them.
Mr Moffat, Miss Pardoner, welcome. Shabbat shalom,
Jedediah.
I turned to Maccabi and asked the name of the manneikin.
My name, Mr Moffat, is Enoch.
Enoch. It is not customary to address ones staff by their...
first names, I believe.
The dwarfish fellow stiffened his back, puffed out his not
inconsiderable chest and said, Well that I am not one such,
Mr Moffat. I am Professor Enoch Jedermann, once of Vienna,
Leyden and Siena Universities, late of Berlin. I am... curator
of the Collection.
He hesitated for the briefest time, and then added, At
your service.
Collection? My eyebrows would have become entangled
with my hair had I raised them any further.
Miss Pardoner caught my eye, and I saw the familiar
upturn at the very corner of her mouth. Maccabi looked

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 EWAN LAWRIE

uncomfortable. The professor displayed the most self-posses-

sion I have ever seen in such a minuscule container.
My great friend, the late Septimus, was an avid collector
of certain... artefacts, the professor said. Then he nodded and
repeated, Artefacts.
Looking around, I realised that the eccentric furnishing of
Browns offices reflected the entrance hallway of Gibbous
House. Passages narrowed by piles of heaped furnishings led
off the hallway and to a staircase that swept up into a gallery
under the dome. I felt that the lunacy of the interior might
possibly prove to be the equal of that of the exterior.
I enjoined Maccabi to show me the house, and bade Miss
Pardoner make herself comfortable. The professor I invited
to dine with us at the hour of eight. It pained me somewhat
when he replied, Forgive me, Mr Moffat. But as it is Shabbat,
I took the liberty of bidding Mrs Gonderthwaite prepare the
Shabbat meal. It is
kasher I hope you do not think
me too presumptuous. I feel we should respect others cus-
toms, Mr Moffat, dont you?
Of course I did think him so, but I would not give him the
satisfaction of knowing it. I gave him no more than a cursory
nod in response before Maccabi began to show me the seat
of my fiefdom.
The staircase led up to a gallery off which led several
doors to other parts of the house, including both east and
west wings. Contrary to the impression created by the eleva-
tion of the forefront, the house extended far, if haphazardly,
to the rear. Like the hallways, the atrium was crammed with

83
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

furniture of madcap selection and sundry bric-a-brac. On the

gallery, sconced candles threw a faint illumination on the
discoloured wallpaper. This paper was in the French style of
half a century before, and, though not so bright as it once had
been, was a trompe loeil after those of Zuber et Cie, a de-
piction of a vast hall of mirrors.
Maccabi pushed the surface of one of the faux mirrors and
it swung ajar. He directed me through into a long corridor
with some twenty doors to other rooms. He turned to me.
These are all the usable bedrooms, sir. The west wing is
uninhabitable on account of the cats, whilst the east houses
the Collection.
And where are the servants quarters? I asked him.
He replied with a little heat, Miss Pardoner and the pro-
fessor are the only other users of these accommodations, sir.
I guessed he had but recently vacated them, or I had mis-
taken myself in the man.
Each door had at one time been painted in a different
shade of blue, with the nearest to the looking-glass entrance
being the lightest and the last in the corridor being almost
black. Maccabi cleared his throat. Miss Pardoner has the
teal, third on the left. The professor has the midnight-blue at
the very end, Mr Moffat. I suggest you inspect the others to
see which is the most suitable to your purpose. I shall wait
below to show you the rest of the house; I regret that I may
not be able to accompany you around the grounds after dark-
ness falls.
It was no surprise that he wished to be shot of me as much

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 EWAN LAWRIE

as I of him. He was a fool if he thought I would not take the

opportunity to investigate what lay behind both the teal and
midnight-blue doors.
The brass knob was tarnished to the colour of mud, and
contrasted sharply with the still-vibrant teal of Miss Pardon-
ers bedroom door. It seemed politic to peruse her chamber
now, as no doubt she would be performing her toilette before
dinner. There were few women of my acquaintance who
could do such in less than an hour. The hinges appeared to be
as ill cared for as the knob, since they groaned and creaked
as though they were about to reveal Ambrosio the Monk in
the hands of his inquisitors.
The room was plain enough, neither over furnished nor
sparsely so. Its papered walls were no doubt pleasing to
the feminine eye, although perhaps more attuned to the
tastes of a half-century earlier. The porcelain stood neatly and
clean on the toilette to the left of a window. What this
window overlooked I could not say, for the filth of it was
as impenetrable as night. Nor could I imagine what lay
beyond: something about my home disturbed me whenever I
attempted to conjure its composition in my minds eye.
The bed was four-posted, and there were holes in its tester.
The curtains seemed in better repair, although a tawdry
scene was depicted on them: a very poorly executed copy of
The Marriage of Venus. I wondered if this had had any
bearing on Miss Pardoners choice of bedchamber, or if she
had merely chosen a door close to the ingress for its conve-
nience. The room itself was spacious enough to encompass

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

several large pieces of furniture and a faded Persian carpet of

some beauty.
A large double-fronted armoire was on the wall adjacent
to the sash window. Beside it stood a tallboy in the same
richly dark wood; it might have been mahogany. The drawers
opened smoothly and I chose an item of intimate apparel
from one of them; it fit snugly in the long pocket of my frock
coat. Opposite was a bookcase that contained only three
books. Novels, rather. They were the work of the so-called
Bell brothers. I opened one at random; Miss Pardoner, or
someone, had underlined the following: Conventionality is
not morality.
It was a mere fragment of a somewhat longer statement.
But the four words seemed sufficient to me to found a philos-
ophy upon. I confess I hoped that my wards hand had drawn
the line under this motto.
At this point the mooted defiler of the tome entered the
room. A low and extravagant bow seemed an appropriate
greeting. She gave the merest nod and struggled against a
smirk: I trust you have satisfied your... curiosity, Mr Moffat.
There is time enough for that, Miss Pardoner, I promise
you. I gave a somewhat more perfunctory bow and left her
to her toilette. It was not until I left the room that I realised
it was deficient in one particular. There had been no sign of
a looking-glass.
Someone, I supposed it to be Maccabi, had lit candles in
the corridor. There was a window of relative transparency
at the very end, but it was admitting little light as dusk

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was falling. The improvement offered by the candlelight was

but little and the dark wallpaper above the wainscoting
scarcely helped.
The corridor would indeed have been a dismal place had
it not been for the inexplicably unfaded shades of the blue
doors. Chance and serendipity had long fascinated me, who
had charted no course through life but merely profited or
not from coincidence at every turn. Therefore, I chose a
door midway down the sinister side, for no other reason than
that it was the same shade as my frock coat.
The brass knob and plate were alike in design to Miss
Pardoners, save for the fact that they were highly polished.
As I opened the door, it became clear that unlike the other
bedchamber, this would easily welcome a clandestine noctur-
nal visitor. I took a candle from the sconce to the left of the
door before entering. Inside was a window, although it was
not quite so filthy: the glass was so clear as to allow enough
crepuscular light to illuminate the room, but perhaps not to
permit the reading of any papers.
The bed was little different from that of the previous room,
though the tester was in good repair, if a little faded, and
there were no classical scenes of dubious taste on the drapery.
These drapes were a subtle and warm sienna colour, and
decorated with a monogram that included a six-pointed star
and the letters A and C. Again, I was struck by the lack of a
looking-glass.
The furnishings were lighter in colour, there was no
hulking wardrobe of mahogany, rather a clothes press. I slid

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out a tray or two but found them empty. In common with the
other furnishings, the wood was highly polished walnut.
There was a dresser with porcelain stood atop it, a little high
for practical use. Several hair pins were strewn beside the
sanitary ware. A silver-backed hairbrush lay next to them,
and it looked as though it should have had as companion a
hand-held looking-glass, but it did not. In one corner, to my
surprise, was a love seat. With my candle, I walked over to
inspect it more closely. The upholstery was stained in a
manner that I recognised from years of removing linen from
lunatics beds. Neither stain should have been found in the
room of a lady of quality.
There was also a handsome leather-bound book with a
locked hasp on the seat, also bearing the monogram with the
six-pointed star. It was a simple matter to break the lock with
the spear-blade penknife I carried in my pocket.
The book was a journal, and inside was the name Arabella
Coble.

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 Chapter Eleven

I was pricked by no sentimentality in finding the adolescent

journal of my late wife. I was merely puzzled that such a thing
would still lie in her bedchamber so long after her departure
from Gibbous House. But my recent apprehension of my
wifes earlier incarnation as the wife of one Cadwallader had
provoked in me some curiosity about her, such as I had here-
tofore not owned, and I took up the book. Equally baffling
was the immaculate repair of the room itself.
Book under my arm, I advanced to the door opposite the
professors midnight-blue. The shade applied liberally to this
door was navy. There was a lever arrangement where the
handle should have been. Brass as the other door furniture
had been neither carelessly filthy nor diligently polished.
I glanced over my shoulder at the portal to the professors
lair. I swung the door wide. The walls were void of paper or
hangings of any kind, and painted with limewash. There was
a mean cot cramped against one wall, and the room was not
large. There was a window of sorts: a tiny square of glass and

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wood with no apparent aperture. A rough wooden garderobe

stood in one corner and in the centre of the rough carpentry
of the floorboards stood a chamberpot, or more correctly
a bourdaloue. The room reminded me of nothing so much
as the asylum in Edinburgh. I tossed my late wifes diary on
the cot, pleased with my choice of bedchamber.
It was time to inspect the professors inner sanctum. There
were several unusual aspects to his retreat. For one, an entire
wall consisted of the most magnificent mahogany shelves
filled with leather-spined books and sundry papers, many of
which the professor unless he possessed the agility and
balance of a colobus could have no earthly hope of perusing.
The remainder of the room was almost filled by the largest
bed I had ever seen; bare of tester or other drapery, the posts
rose like vacant flagpoles toward the ceiling. At last I had
found a room in possession of a looking-glass, although it
would have been of little use in adjusting ones dress: the
entire ceiling was of mirrored glass, though cracked and
crazed as if someone had thrown stones at it by the handful.
It showed distorted reflections of murals as outrageous as
those rumoured to have been discovered in Pompeii and Her-
culaneum. Indeed, I would not have been surprised if Francis
I of Naples had fainted dead away in the presence of such
lubriciousness. I wondered how the professor slept at night,
or, indeed, if he preferred not to do so.
The professors library drew my eye: the entire wall of
shelves appeared to have the tomes and papers arranged in
no discernible order. Plutarch sat cosily beside Pythagoras

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 EWAN LAWRIE

and both were Popes Dunciad away from the sentimentalist

scribbler Dickens. More venerable volumes had titles familiar
to me from Moffats trunk; several of these were beside
vellum and parchment documents. I took only a bundle
inscribed with a script identical it appeared to the magi-
cally appearing hieroglyphs on the blank vellum sheets I had
received from the unfortunate Mr Cartwright. A volume lay
open on the bed, a wavering black line under the words,

But it must be thought that the electric principle, that it

may be easily understood from those things which we
shall soon submit, was not added by accidental causes,
but was intentionally implanted by nature:

It was a book on something called Animal Electricity by

one Luigi Galvani, and it seemed to contain more such arrant
nonsense, light on which page I might.
There appeared little of a personal nature in the room, at
least nothing that I could find among the professors clothing.
Nor was there any trace of an escritoire or writing slope.
Evidently none of the professors duties of curatorship was
performed in the privacy of his bedchamber.
That fellow gave a mighty roar of pain as I tripped over
him on the way out of his room. I considered I might issue
him with a bell so that one might be warned of his approach.
No one should be forced to perambulate their home, eyes
fixed downward, on account of a midget. He recovered his
equilibrium and his patriarchal voice was calm as he said,
Feel free to borrow anything from my library, Mr Moffat.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Although I fear there is little that is not in your own, or rather

in that which comprises part of the Collection.
My hackles quite rose. And how would that not be mine?
All writing is posteritys, Mr Moffat, we merely safeguard
it for others.
I eyed him, astounded at the patronising tone emerging
from three feet below my own mouth.
D___ posterity, Professor, and d___ you!
And I resolved to be rid of the Collection whatever it
might be and its eminently d___able curator, as soon as I
possibly might.
The tiny man stiffened, made a parody of a bow and
informed me that, as it soon would be the hour of eight, he
would be delighted if I would join him in the library for a
libation of my own choosing. It was insufferable; the man
was treating me as a guest in my own house. It would soon
be time for me to go abroad, in search of relief from danger-
ous passions. I feared there would be little opportunity in
rural Northumberland. Nevertheless, I remained outwardly
cordial to the man and bade him lead me to the library.
We passed back through the trompe loeil looking-glass
and descended the stairs in silence. Choosing our path care-
fully through the piled furniture, we made for a fine walnut
door leading to the east wing. The professor passed through
it and quickened his pace, his gait becoming the scuttle of a
roach, the nails in his tiny boots recalling associated sounds.
Surprisingly, I had to make an effort to stay close on his heels;

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as a consequence, I could take less note of the rooms we

passed through than I might have wished.
It was clear, however, that the first as well as housing
objets de mystre in every material, of every shape and size
appeared to be serving as the dining room, at least for
this evening. The next room was crammed with products of
the taxidermists art; from the largest savage feline to the
tiniest wren, it seemed as though all creation, or at least an
example of every species of fauna, had gathered in the room.
It was as though one of each of Noahs pairs had made the
huge journey from Ararat to be rendered glassy eyed and
sinister in Northumbria.
The next room was reminiscent of the notarys office, and
for that reason I was glad that the dwarfs scurrying pace had
not abated, as we passed through the madmans gallery of
images rapidly. Then came a room of geological specimens:
agates, beryl, topaz, simpler quartzes, fossils, amber. I would
have preferred to tarry in it, but the professors hobnails tip-
tapped ever on. We passed through a vivarium worthy of the
Zoological Societys garden in Regents Park, and I shuddered
at the slithering behind the foliage-darkened vitrines.
At last we came to the library. A vast room: it was a repos-
itory of books such as the fabled Alexandrian library must
have been. The dimensions of the room itself were most
impressive. In length it comprised two chains. One wall was
punctuated by high, arching windows between which shelves
were bursting with books of every size and shape. One of the
shorter walls enjoyed French windows leading out onto the

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

grounds, but they were of course flanked by more books. The

remaining longer wall contained thousands upon thousands
of volumes. The ceiling was high and vaulted, six chandeliers
filled with an unconscionable quantity of candles lit the
room. Other candlebrae stood on every available surface, and
there were many. Low bookcases and tables housed further
books, and some manner of seating stood by every place
where a hand might be laid on a book.
One low table by a chaise and an upholstered seat had but
one book; the remainder of its surface, thanks be, was taken
up by crystal glasses and tantali. The professor, as yet not
putting aside his irritating presumption, poured us both a
generous glass of jerez and proposed a toast:
To posterity, Mr Moffat.
To purgatory, Professor, I replied.
It was not a jerez of the very highest quality, but it was
more than palatable. In fact, it was a better libation than had
passed my lips in some time. We were still standing, the pro-
fessor and I, and though it might be expected that the
advantage in height that I held would have made him uncom-
fortable, indeed it did not. Perhaps it was the darkest brown
tones of his voice, the biblical quality of his speech or the
perfection of his English in contrast with his accent, but he
seemed as prepossessed as any man I had ever met. I despised
him for it; hated him for making so little of his disadvantage,
and so much of his tiny self. His eyes were full of intelligence
as befitted a man of his learning, and I searched in vain for
something of the sly in them. He kept them on me, scarce

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 EWAN LAWRIE

blinking, as though quite content to look at me until I began

a conversation or died of boredom.
Professor, I began, you will forgive me if in future my
household does not comply with the servants rituals. As a
man unconvinced of the existence of any divine being, I should
prefer that any religious observance of whatever marque not
take place under my roof. You may do as you please within
your own chamber. At least until I have considered the dispo-
sition of this household and your place within it.
He lifted an eyebrow and, although I felt it had a some-
what comical effect, I was unable to laugh.
Mr Moffat, Jedediah has told me you have been foolish
enough to sign unread papers. I see now that I should have
believed him. Gibbous House and all its contents form part
of a discretionary trust.
Professor, I sneered, I thought you were a man of science,
not a court room pettifogger.
I have studied a modicum of law, Mr Moffat. Do you
know what a discretionary trust signifies?
I have no doubt that it signifies you will continue to be a
parasite on the estate, sir.
He gave a smile that quite transformed his face. From that
of a sweet-faced dwarf it transformed into the physiognomy
of a corrupt and evil gnome. Quite so, Mr Moffat, if you care
to phrase it thus.
The smile was gone ere he finished speaking and he
assumed a pious look. It is time for the Shabbos meal, Mr

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Moffat. I think you will find it interesting, even though it be

a religious observance. I do.
His tiny boots beat their tattoo back through the hoards
of miscellany to the dining room, and I was forced to follow
him.

96
 Chapter Twelve

The room was gloomy. Barely four candles were lit in the few
sconces visible in between the stockpiles of bizarrerie in evi-
dence, however, there were several bronze candelabra at
intervals along the imposing table. In the murk I could see
Miss Pardoner already seated. Maccabi hovered as if caught
betwixt taking a chair and moving to stand at the wall like a
footman. There were three further places at the table. I moved
to the head of it, opposite Miss Pardoner.
Discourse over dinner would be at some volume, it seemed.
I enjoined Maccabi to take a seat, if he was sure all was in
readiness for the repast. He flinched at the imputation that I
might expect him to fetch a cruet set or a bottle of port if not.
On my waving the professor to the remaining seat, the fellow
shook his head and began intoning in an alien tongue, while
picking up a carafe containing wine. It was a prayer of some
sort. Maccabis head was bowed, and Miss Pardoner gave me
a bold look for the duration of the incantation. I returned it
with interest.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Jedermann moved down the table until he stood next to a

silver platter with two unusual loaves atop it. The bread had
a look of a braid or plait and the dwarf had, as with the wine,
a little difficulty in reaching the platter to bestow his blessing
on the bread. His domed head appeared over the edge of
the table. It was all I could do not to laugh. It seemed a
very serious matter for Maccabi and the professor himself,
if not for my ward, who appeared to be biting the inside of
her cheek.
I smote the table with my palm. For pitys sake, when does
a man eat!
Maccabi shook his head while the professor fetched a lit
taper from a tall, thin piece of cabinetry that looked like it
should be furniture, but which shared no features with any
piece that I knew, save that of being made of wood. The pro-
fessor took only a few minutes to terminate the pantomime
of lighting the candles in the holders, the taper being long
enough to allow him the lighting of them whilst on tiptoe and
balancing on one leg. He sat at last, breathing a little heavily.
Looking from my face to a bell at my left hand, he nodded
vigorously. I grasped the wooden handle and the bell gave out
a sound of less-than-perfect pitch, but of surprising volume.
A sparsely lean and forbidding figure entered bearing a
huge covered platter. Her strength must have been a sinewy
sort. Garbed in black with hair shorn as short as a mans and
so white, in conjunction with the pallor of her skin, as to offer
as monochromatic a study of a less-than-matronly figure as
ever I had seen, she said not a word. Placing the huge dish on

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the table, she uncovered a massive pike. It was surrounded by

whole grunions and the leaves of an uncommon large lettuce.
The professor let out a groan of what I assumed was appre-
ciation. Maccabi explained, It is customary to eat fish or
meat for the Shabbos meal; we thought the fish would have
something of novelty for you, sir.
I forebore to say that I might have expired from a surfeit
of novelty since arriving at the house.
The skeletal Mrs Gonderthwaite assembled our chargers
in the centre of the table and began serving portions of the
freshwater fish and whitebaits on them. Picking up two of
them she made first of all towards Maccabi, who wisely
shook his head. Veering around the table she appeared to be
making for the professors place setting. The diminutive
fellow, who, despite a complex arrangement of a wooden
block and some cushions atop his chair could barely reach
his cutlery, held up a hand. At which point I interposed. No,
no, I insist, Professor. Guests should always be served first,
dont you think?
He made no reply other than an expressive shrug.
Maccabi stood up, with little grace I thought, as he had to
steady the chair behind him. He then set about pouring the
blessed wine. Noting his decision to begin with me, I waved
him towards Miss Pardoner, at least as soon as he had reached
my glass. I informed Mrs Gonderthwaite that I expected, as
the host, to be served last, and plates in hand she accom-
plished a graceful curtsey while nodding her agreement.
So, whatever Mrs Gonderthwaites intent had been in the

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

apportionment of the viands, I was not displeased to mark

that my plate showed much less of the intricate designs
favoured by the Spodes Major and Minor than the others.
The woman departed, as silent as a wraith and perhaps
as insubstantial.
I waited expectantly. No further mummery being forth-
coming, I bade the table commence. Opposite me, Miss
Pardoner manipulated her cutlery with less delicacy than one
might have expected: she did not, of course, have a simian
grip on the handle of her knife by any means. She merely
applied her silverware with a methodical and efficient will
and seemed to be making very short work of her vittles. Mac-
cabi pushed his fish around his platter like a sulky boy of five.
The professor ate at a fashionably slow pace. I raised my
glass. To absent friends, and those soon to depart.
Maccabi and the professor reluctantly raised their own.
My ward raised hers to the accompaniment of either the most
prodigiously lethargic tic, or the most lascivious wink I had
ever witnessed.
Mrs Gonderthwaite drifted in and out with a selection of
unfamiliar dishes, fish for the most part, fresh and saltwater,
hot and cold, pickled and salted, with nary a sign of crab or
lobster. Of conversation there was little; on being presented
with something which the professor informed me was gefilte
fish, I enquired if it was the custom to eat so much food at
one sitting.
It was Maccabi who replied, For us, yes. The chosen are

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 EWAN LAWRIE

blessed with an extra soul on Shabbat, and we ensure that it

is well fed.
The professor simply said that he didnt care for modera-
tion, to which I replied, No more do I.
Having finally engaged the fellow in conversation, I
bluntly and perhaps somewhat rudely said, Discretionary
trust? Tilting my head on one side, I waited for a response.
It did not come from the little man. Miss Pardoners pleas-
ingly deep but not unfeminine voice informed me: It is quite
a simple instrument in its basic form, as I understand it.
However, Mr Moffat, here she gave the beginnings of a
smile, your inheritance is subject to a particular type of dis-
cretionary. That is, a testamentary trust.
She paused. Maccabi looked at the ceiling. I caught a
glimpse of the corrupt and evil gnome in the professors
visage and watched him give the barest of nods. Miss Par-
doner went on. Wherein the discretionary trust shall be a
testamentary trust, it is not uncommon for the settlor to leave
a letter of wishes for the trustees to guide them as to said
settlors wishes in the exercise of their discretion. In so far as
Coble left sundry papers detailing his wishes for the disposi-
tion and management for the legacy in trust, you, Mr Moffat,
whether you had read the papers or no, might be said to be
in receipt of a Fools Mate. Certainly, with the game barely
begun, regarding whatever plans you might have had for the
house, its contents or it pains me to say it my own self,
said game is already lost. And your plans are therefore moot.
The young woman finished speaking and looked me

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

directly in the eye. I confess to being dumbstruck. Not at the

legal expertise so lightly shewn, nor at the seeming impasse
to which I had come: no, I was absolutely captivated by the
boldness of the woman, and I wondered what such a woman
would not do, given the opportunity and means.
Maccabi and I sat down once more, just as the professor
tumbled from his perch in a most inelegant style. Not even
this mishap could disturb the dwarfs remarkable sang-froid,
and he announced that he would serve the port since he was
up, or at least down, from his chair. Luckily the port decanter
and glasses had been placed somewhat nearer to the edge of
the ostentatiously large table. Having charged a glass for each
of us, he drew himself up to his far from considerable height
and addressed me thus: Mr Moffat, if you would be so kind
as to indulge me, a mere guest in your home, to propose a
toast of my own.
I nodded my assent; Jedermann began a rambling anecdote
seemingly as preamble for his toast. The academics voice was
strangely compelling for me; so much so that I paid little heed
to the wanderings of his speech. No, I spent the time cudgel-
ling my brains in a vain attempt to ascertain quite why this
voice intrigued me so. It was, it must be admitted, a fine one.
Befitting an actor on the London stage. Not for the principal
parts, of course, but it would have done splendidly for the
villainous foreigner of whatever stripe, which character at
that time was the sine qua non of the dramatic arts. Neither
was it the contrast I had previously noted between his beau-
tiful diction, coupled with an undeniable erudition, and the

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 EWAN LAWRIE

starkly alien accent. It was the familiarity of it: I do not

mean to say that I had heard this voice before my arrival
at Gibbous House; indeed not. My feeling was that I had
heard somewhere, at some forgotten time, a similar voice,
with similar traits of vocabulary and accent. Naturally, I was
quite unprepared to find Maccabi and Miss Pardoner both
upright and looking at me expectantly with glasses raised. I
cleared my throat and my ward offered the toast: Next year
in Jerusalem.
Maccabi repeated the toast in a choking voice and I won-
dered if he had been as unlucky as Harbinger in the matter
of fishbones. Certainly, he was affected enough to have a tear
in his eye. I raised my glass and tossed off the port. It struck
me that there had been quite some fuss for a small house-
holds dinner on a Friday evening. Waving my empty glass,
I said slowly, Well, I think therell be a little less formality
in future. Or at least such that there is will be of a more
civilised kind.
Let it be so, Mr Moffat, Jedermann replied with great
equanimity and I noted he had not drunk the toast nor even
risen from his peculiar chair.
I espied Maccabi turning a little puce at this point, and
hoped to see the spectacle of the professor attempting to
dislodge a fishbone from his throat by leaping up to strike
the middle of his back. Unfortunately, the bone was swal-
lowed forthwith or there was some other reason for my
factotums antics.
Abruptly, Miss Pardoner stood and, naturally enough, we

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

did the same. Or, rather, Maccabi and I did. The professor
was still struggling to dismount from his complex seating
arrangement as Miss Pardoner informed us:
As is customary, sirs, I shall withdraw and leave you to
your gentlemanly pursuits.
Again, I noted the upward tilt of one corner of her mouth,
and I pondered whither she would withdraw, since the
accommodations I had thus far seen had not included any
manner of withdrawing room. It had amused me to pretend
to Maccabi and Miss Pardoner that I knew nothing of their
customs and that I was unaware that, in fact, Passover had
not yet begun and no matzah had been served. Of course, I
was not entirely unacquainted with Jewish custom; how
could I not be so, having married the occasionally righteous
Miss Arabella Coble?
Nevertheless, Professor Jedermann continued in a most
affable voice, Mr Moffat, you must forgive us if we
have been a little more formal than usual. The Passover
meal...
Yet you are not Jewish yourself, Professor?
I am fascinated by all religion. Since Miss Pardoner and
Maccabi are Jewish it suits me to indulge them. We have
learned much from the Jewish scholars.
On and on he went, as if I were a student in some lecture
hall in Siena, Berlin or Vienna, and as if I gave a bent farthing
to boot. The voice continued to nag at me; my mind turned
quite inward and I forgot to ask whom he meant by we. I
did not hear the word that brought the memory back, I only

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knew that the owner of the voice that his own so brought to
mind had been instrumental in Alasdair Moffats long-
awaited release from the asylum, years before.

105
 Chapter Thirteen

It was a measure of how distracted I was that I gave a start

when the professor dismounted from his siege perilous some-
what acrobatically, and, it must be said, with a modicum of
grace. He gave an exaggerated bow and excused himself to
his chamber, no doubt to savour the acrobatic propensities of
some of those figures depicted on its walls. Maccabi gave the
sketchiest of bows and an indecipherable grunt. The decanter
of port was half full when I poured my next glass, and I
placed it nearby for the sake of convenience. Memory found
me in Moffats cell in the Edinburgh asylum on the day of my
release: December 24th 183_, and I remembered letters
scrawled on mildewed leaves of long-lost books...
The Medical Superintendent, the Keeper, as we patients
knew him, was present in the company of a tall figure pos-
sessed of an authoritarian air and the brow of a polymath. I
sat on the cot; my two interlocutors had brought an ill-
matched pair of gimcrack chairs in rough deal, and placed
them adversarially opposite me in the cramped cell. The

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Keeper and the other fellow had been seated for a quar-
ter-hour in complete silence. The stranger had a notebook
open and a pen poised, but to that point had written nothing.
Abruptly he began with a diffident question: Mr Alasdair
Moffat, is it?
Who else might I be? I offered.
Well, begging your pardon, according to the Medical
Superintendents account you might be Napoleon on Monday,
Nelson on Tuesday and Nebuchadnezzar by the end of the
week, dyou see?
A reasonable, cultured voice it was. I noted a few uncertain
vowels and the hardening of certain consonants.
It is some time since I have answered to any appellation
but Alasdair Moffat.
I was sitting up quite straight despite the lack of support
for my dorsal area. Silence prevailed for a few moments. The
other two gentlemen exchanged a look I could not decipher.
The interview, thus far, was broadly similar to many I had
had with the Keeper.
The exotic fellow spoke at last. But before, who were you
then? He gave me an encouraging look.
It is true I am quite changed from what I was. A new man,
you might say.
What do you remember?
I have a past, surely, as everyone does. Is it remembered
or related, innate or acquired; who can say? Not I.
So you remember nothing before the attack on your
person?

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Remember? Perhaps not. However, a journal is a useful

thing, wouldnt you agree, Mr McKay?
The Keeper averted his gaze and said nothing.
My interrogator wore a pin in the lapel of his jacket. It
seemed a frivolous gewgaw out of temper with the sobriety
of his dress. It was a symbol I had seen in several of the books
in the trunk. At its base was a number 3 on its side, points
downward. Atop this was a cross, then a circle of similar size,
with a tiny dot at its centre. The circle seemed to sport a pair
of devils horns. The man spoke again. So, Mr Moffat, how
would you describe your experience? An old life changed,
forgotten, discarded?
A new birth, a virgin birth, maybe. I laughed at the
thought of it.
The man opposite me smiled and nodded. Just so, Mr
Moffat. Just so.
The men stood. As he turned to go, I saw that the pin had
the peculiar attribute of seeming at one moment a thing of
base pewter, the next of purest gold.
I was turned out the next day with a portmanteau contain-
ing Moffats journal, his copy of Malleus Maleficarum and
spare linen; two gold sovereigns weighed heavy in my pocket.

As the newly cured Alasdair Moffat, it had seemed expedient

to depart Edinburgh and Scotland, and I expended a portion
of my paltry monies on coach travel to London. In the
manner of many foolish young men, I spent my assets rapidly

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and without considering how I might replace them. I left a

hotel of good quality one March morning by a first-floor
window, a modus egressi I have not infrequently been re-
duced to since.
Penniless, I found in myself a natural talent for the nefar-
ious: I picked pockets, being careful to practise on the
inebriate; I took to carrying a blade, short and vicious,
although on most occasions a sight of it produced the purse
and if it did not? Well, I became proficient in the use of it.
There was a good living to be made, but it was obvious to me
that a footpad could not hope to evade capture for ever.
Besides, in the lower taverns I frequented, I overheard whis-
pers concerning a desperate criminal some had taken to
calling the Scotchman. Limehouse became too hot for me,
and moonlight illuminated my decamping to the East India
Docks. I spent a week watching the clippers of the Honorable
company sailing into berth.
It surprised me that these ships, narrow of beam and
patently incapable of carrying cargo of any great bulk,
formed the major part of the empires merchant marine, at
least on the routes to the Orient. Their tall-masted elegance
was pleasing to the eye, however, and on occasion I would be
engaged in conversation by some grizzled mariner on matters
of little consequence. I learned the difference between a clip-
per and a cutter, and to appreciate the sleek lines of the
former with its sharply raked stem, counter stern and square
rig. I could not help but notice their cargoes: expensive,
low-volume commodities: spices, tea and passengers.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Many passengers were women, travelling with paid ladys

companions or offspring destined for education in the home
country. Occasionally, there were ladies travelling quite
alone, recent widows of East India Company officers, English
flowers too delicate for the tropics or, sometimes, women
driven home by some scandal or other. I made it my business
to welcome such ladies home, avoiding only those with prog-
eny likely to prove an obstacle to my ends. For the most part,
it was a matter of offering these ladies escort to their destina-
tion, the requisition of a hansom, guiding them out of the
dangerous docklands to more salubrious accommodations.
Often I would perform these services, and take whatever
beneficence they offered. Sometimes I made more lucrative
arrangements, the more vulnerable and gullible found their
way to a certain house I knew well, as did some of the more
promising children. Arabella Coble did not.
But Arabella Coble was already part of my past by now.
What profit was there in thinking of her? Perhaps I would
peruse her journal in an idle moment at some later time. I felt
I should stir myself from the dining room and take some
exercise; perhaps I could circumambulate the house and quell
the queasiness I felt whenever I contemplated its design. In
truth I was unused to superstitions hold, but there was some-
thing unnatural about the arrangement of the building, as if
it were as much a trompe loeil as the hall of mirrors paper
on the gallery leading to the bedrooms. I was resolved. Taking
a last draught of port direct from the decanter, I made my
way to the furniture-crammed lobby.

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 Chapter Fourteen

Of course, I was not in possession of any keys. No matter, I

considered that it would be interesting to discover who
answered the bell on my return. I swung the door wide and
looked out into a starlit night. Turning left I passed the front
of the east wing and peered in the dining-room window. The
view to the interior was somewhat obscured by yet another
item of exotic bric-a-brac: it appeared to be an orrery,
although the number of planets was plainly incorrect, since a
celestial body unknown to man was stationed outwith the
orbit of the newly discovered Neptune.
Even so, it was a beautiful thing, if tarnished, and I won-
dered that it had not caught my eye during dinner. The next
two windows also looked in on the dining room, and the
second of them presented me with a sight as like to stop the
heart of any disposed to afreets and phantasms. Some large
furnishing blocked the view into the room, but it stood some
feet back from the glass. Directly behind the grubby window

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stood a skeleton, displayed, I supposed, for the benefit of

students of medicine. I hurried on my way.
In common with the asymmetry of the towers of both the
west and east wings, the windows were not placed equidis-
tant along the wall. Again, it seemed as if the architect had
been intent on offending every tenet of aesthetics regarding
his profession. He appeared to have delighted in odd num-
bers and an absence of motif or repetition. For example, the
windows would be at random any one of mullioned, sash,
oriel, clerestory and even, memorably, stained glass. The
latter type of window enjoyed a run of three into the vivar-
ium and I was more than grateful for that.
But the most disconcerting of all were two windows that
appeared to offer insight into a room through which I had
not passed: the withdrawing room I had previously noted
as being deficient. The windows were the more expensive
double-hung sash rather than the singles of the taxidermical
room. It contained two chaise longues, a sofa and a rather
grand chesterfield. A long sideboard provided a place for
cordials suitable to the most refined of ladies. There were two
paintings on the walls, after Gainsborough and Reynolds, or
perhaps by those two themselves, strangely and ironically
close, given that each had been anathema to the other
whilst alive. The room could not possibly have existed, but
there it was, visible from outside the building, plainly sited
betwixt the vivarium and the library.
To my relief, the windows of the library revealed only the
extraordinary room in which I had enjoyed a tincture with the

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wandering professor. It was only when I noted that the candles

had been snuffed that I realised that someone had been but
recently in the hidden room. Why else had it been illuminated?
Who had been stealthily bearing tapers and doubters to all
parts of the house? Maccabi had not mentioned any staff
other than the insubstantial Mrs Gonderthwaite. My determi-
nation to have more than several matters out with Maccabi
grew still more forceful with every hour.
I turned left at the end of the west wing. The French
windows at the librarys end opened onto a generously pro-
portioned terrace. A long sward of grass swept downward,
flanked by oaks of some antiquity, and I could see a tiny coal-
red light in the distance, moving rhythmically but slowly, as
though someone were smoking a briar pipe. Surely someone
tended the numerous sheep I had seen on my arrival at the
house? The terrain dropped away as the flags of the terrace
marked the edge of the library wall. To my left I could see a
wall adjoining the main body of the west wing approximately
where the library ended, and where the secret room began.
This long extension to the rear of the house obscured the wall
supporting the dome. I had seen no entry to this part of the
building, although almost anything could have been con-
cealed by the disorder in the atrium. Of course it was likely
that access to this part of the building was in the mysteriously
hidden withdrawing room, but I had discerned no such portal
when I peered through the sash windows, and, as I have said,
the room was unaccountably well lit.
The long wall could well have been a mole had it been

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at Seahouses, instead of land-locked in Northumbrian hills.

It was uncommon long: a furlong perhaps, with not a window
to it, although it plainly was the wall of a building. It was
possessed of a mansard roof. At the top of the wall itself was
a ludicrous arrangement of deep embrasures and high mer-
lons, although the house was scarce a hundred years old, as
Maccabi had informed me during one of our interminable
journeys in the phaeton. I doubted that the most irrational
fear of the Jacobites could have justified the fortification.
Again, at the termination of this long spur, the terrain
swept down a steep gradient. A charming lake, little more
than a pond perhaps, lay at the foot of the hill. I resolved
to walk down to it. It was no more than several chains away.
As I approached, I could hear the waterfowl competing with
a cacophony of frogs to claim precedence over the water.
At the waters edge I turned to look back at Gibbous House.
The ridiculous dome had taken a large bite out of the nights
full moon and I learned a further reason for Fitzgibbon
Houses sobriquet.
On the other side of this elongated extension from the
main body of the house, a shorter edifice did indeed emerge
from the dome. It was almost commensurate with what one
might have expected from the bedroom arrangements on the
first floor. Disconcertingly, it did seem a little short, as though
several of the bedrooms were little more than closets.
Despite this peculiarity, I was in fact more interested in this
part of the ground floor for the simple reason that I had not
seen it. The first two windows belonged to the kitchen, which

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was a little small for the house had both wings been in use.
A solitary candle guttered on a large table, its flickering light
reflected in the shine from numerous copper pans hanging
from a rack suspended from the ceiling. The room was
deserted, although I did detect an occasional rapid movement
that might have warranted the recall of a cat or two from the
west wing. At the next window, I truly was discomposed
when the cook appeared with an oil lamp before her breast.
The woman could have been blind for all she registered my
presence a few scant inches away on the other side of the
glass. She put me in mind of the anatomical specimen hidden
behind the wardrobe, peering out of the dining-room
window. Perhaps because she was naked, and would have
provided quite as good a guide as to the composition of the
thoracic skeleton as that other assemblage of bones.
I passed several darkened windows obscured by the
absence of candlelight and the dirt of neglect. The final
window in the wall was brightly illuminated; Maccabi was
bare-chested. He appeared in a state of some excitement. I
caught a flash of blue skirts as someone left his room. A
sleepless night for Jedediah, I surmised. I stepped back
quickly into the shadows. Maccabi stared, chin jutting, out of
the window, the very picture of the romantic hero. Stifling a
laugh, I decided to put off exploring the other half of the
exterior until the morrow. Retracing my steps, I soon found
myself on the terrace outside the library, where my eye was
caught once more by the red coal light. I descended the

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

gradient, thinking to place myself some yards to the right of

the smoking shepherd.
Though scarce ten feet from me, he remained unaware of
my presence. The sheep were skittish but he appeared to
think little of it. There could be no other reason for a shep-
herd to be abroad at this hour save to protect his masters
flock. This fellow appeared to be making a very poor effort
at his duty and so I felt his fate was deserved. There was a
yellow scarf in my pocket, but even the most credulous would
not have accepted the presence of thuggee in this isolated
place. My boot struck a rock lightly. I bent down and picked
it up. It made a fine sound as it cracked the mans skull. Pick-
ing him up, I carried him over the brow of the hill. We were
looking towards the pond and both frogs and ducks were
silent until I threw the shepherd down the slope. He rolled
like a misshapen barrel until I heard a splash and the renewed
hostilities between the waterfowl and the amphibians.
I cursed the fact I had not kept his pipe as, for once, a
smoke would have completed my pleasure. The night had
turned cold, although it was almost April. I had quite forgot-
ten how much difference a few degrees of longitude could
make to the climate, and how isolation and the absence of
civilisation could lower the temperature. The faint sounds of
the pond were almost masked by the Northumbrian wind.
For the first time, I contemplated turning my back on Gib-
bous House and all that I had not quite inherited, but a slight
unpaid burdens the soul more than any sin.
On returning to the house, I lifted the iron monkeys chin

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and swung the knocker as forcefully as I knew how. The sat-

isfying sound that it made produced no satisfactory result, at
least in subsequent minutes. On the point of rattling the
monkeys brains again, I was surprised when the door swung
wide. Blinded by the light of an oil lamp, I fervently hoped
that if it were Mrs Gonderthwaite admitting me, she had
taken the time to dress.
Fortunately, when my sight had returned, it became clear
it was not she, but Miss Pardoner who bore the lamp. She
stepped gracefully aside to admit me. There was a touch of
high colour on her cheek and her lips seemed a little swollen.
It was possible she had had to run to answer the door knock-
ers summons.
We stopped at the foot of the stairs; forced to intimacy by
the Chinese Chippendale desk behind her and the rough oak
chest at my back. She retreated a step, leaned against the
vulgarly ornate escritoire, and ran her hand along its bevelled
edge. I kept my distance such as could be kept in such con-
finement. Chin up, head slightly tilted to one side, she
appraised me, showing no deference or need to speak. I
expressed my surprise that she was not already retired. Her
reply was succinct. I keep late hours, Mr Moffat.
And bad company... ? I ventured, but the woman
remained quite unprovoked, provoking me in her turn with
bold looks.
Miss Pardoner, I said, gesturing at the blue of her skirts,
pretty and distinctive though this cerulean hue might be it
is scarce your colour.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

But I like it, Mr Moffat, it is the exact colour of the Chalk

Hill Blue butterfly a truly beautiful creature.
She attempted a fluttering of the eyelashes after the manner
of an Eliza Wharton. It was not a success; there was nothing
of the coquette in her manner. Still I made reply, out of cour-
tesy. Miss Pardoner, it is not the butterfly that interests me,
but the moth.
And the moth, does it perish at your flame? The telltale
corner of her mouth rose once again. She looked momentar-
ily downward, toward the front of my breeches. My blood
was up after the despatch of the careless shepherd. The
woman had not finished. Or do you pin it spreadeagle, to
a board at your leisure?
As I mouthed, soon, very soon, to the retreating flash of
blue, she scampered up the stairs and through the looking-
glass.
Having recovered myself sufficiently, I made my way up
the stairs to the concealed entry to the vestibule leading to the
blue-doored bedrooms. Naturally, I lingered at the teal-blue
door. It was only a shade or two distinct from her unsuitable
skirts it pleased me to a large degree that she evinced a taste
for the unsuitable. I put my eye to the keyhole on the tar-
nished brass plate and was thwarted by the key in the other
side. It may have been fancy but I discerned the song of
Sheba, faint but urgent, from behind the door.
Surprisingly, at the other end of the corridor there was no
aural evidence of the solitary vice I expected from behind the
professors door. Perhaps he was indifferent to the tableaux

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on his chamber walls, or merely treated them as objects of

academic interest. Alone behind the navy-blue door, in my
monkish cell, I noted that although the bourdeloue remained
in the centre of the rough floor, Miss Arabella Cobles journal
was now upon the window ledge with a tall candle burning
beside it.
Though still troubled by the passions aroused by my
adventure on the hill by the pond, I did not indulge them as
a lesser man might. It has long been my experience that grat-
ification deferred is all the more pleasurable, for the most
part. Moving the candle to the side of the window ledge
nearest my cot, I picked up my late wifes juvenile scribbles,
let the journal fall open where it chose and lay down to
read it.

AC
Friday 13th May 183_
Yesterday, Great-uncle Septimus visited the
schoolroom. Though it is found amongst the
blue-doored bedrooms, it always puts me in mind of a
gaol, especially in the presence of my tutor. He is a most
vile drunkard, and his hand lingers too oft upon my
person. Mr Snitterton had the misfortune to be asleep
upon my great-uncles arrival. Uncle nodded once at me
and said but one word: So! He received only a snore
from the tutor for an answer, though his back was
already turned. I am at a loss to understand how the man
sleeps so well in the straight-backed and, frankly, spindly

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

chairs we have brought from the library to this room. But

I think, perhaps, Mr Snitterton is none too long for
employment at Gibbous House.

Saturday 14th May 183_

It is late and I write in my room by candlelight. Today is
yet another Shabbos gone; Gentiles are so lucky; how I
wish I might do something on the day of rest. Visit
Alnwick, try the wares in the market. Buy a hat at the
milliners, waste the day at a coffee shop. I often think we
persecute ourselves as much as the Gentiles oppress us.

Sunday 15th May 183_

Mr Snitterton cut a tragic figure as he boarded the
farmers cart before the house this morning. How can
anyone travel with so few possessions? I was summoned
to the library at eleven of the morning. A rare occurence,
though I do not complain; my uncle is so serious a
fellow, he quite intimidates me. It was not so important a
matter; he merely wished to inform me that my new
tutor would arrive tomorrow. A Heathfield Cadwallader,
such a mouthful of a name. I wonder what sort of man
might own to it?

I had read enough to know that my former wife the woman

who stepped down the cutters gangplank in the East India
Docks was of quite different character to the silly girl who
had written that journal.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Naturally, consequent on earlier events, I was not disposed

to sleep. Arabella Cobles entrance on the stage of my life
appeared equally naturally in my thoughts.
She had been dressed appropriately for a spring day in
London, although not in that particular year. It was not fool-
ish to surmise that her apparel had spent several years in
trunk in Simla or Shanghai. We were nearing the end of the
decade, and the woman disembarking appeared to be of my
own age, or the age I purported to be. That is to say, seven
and twenty. She lifted one hand to adjust a large white cap
with a striped ribbon bow. Her other hand held that of a
female child aged between babble and cogent conversation,
and so of little interest, either to me or to my business asso-
ciate. Nonetheless, she cut a striking figure: unusually tall for
a woman, she was not possessed of a fashionable silhouette
for this decade, or many previous. From the dockside, I
marked the usual encouraging signs of a suitable gull: head,
and eyes presumably, moving to take in the full panorama of
the quayside, searching for some or other expected welcome.
This was ever more frequently interspersed with a heave of
the shoulders indicative of great sighing. I wagered with
myself that the woman would wait longer than the average
time before stepping onto the dock. She did not disappoint.
The bell from a nearby church had tolled two quarters before
she did so.
I pondered the while how best to approach her. For older
women of middle age, I usually made a deep bow of greeting
and presented a card. The card bore a name I no longer care

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to remember, I had stolen its original from a self-satisfied

lawyer in Limehouse on the pretext of introducing him to a
French whore. Such a fool to have followed a man he scarcely
knew behind an East End tavern. Still, such lessons are hard-
learned, and if a fellow may not benefit from them in this life,
he surely must in the next. An unscrupulous printer in the
Fleet was happy enough to produce a couple of hundred
examples of the card for half a crown and a promise that I
not return to his family home.
Younger women were often less suspicious, but also
inclined to mistrust over-elaborate manners. I clicked my
heels like a commissioned hussar and made the briefest of
inclinations for a bow.
Captain Crawford, at your service, Maam. You were
expecting me?
She began a shake of her head, but stopped abruptly.
I was expecting someone.
She looked me up and down, seeming little impressed with
my attire. I presumed that her time in the tropics had not
enabled her to keep up with the latest male fashions. My
wardrobe, at that time, was my greatest extravagance: I felt
that I cut a fine figure that day in my red and black patterned
waistcoat, russet trousers, lovat tailcoat and top hat. The
acquisition of a modicum of good taste was one of the many
things that I owed to my late wife.
And who should that someone be, if not you? she said,
which utterance quite took my breath away. It seemed that
we had both been on the hunt for a flat upon whom we might

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 EWAN LAWRIE

play the crooked cross. However, I found it strange that she

did not address me as Captain, as politeness required.

123
 Chapter Fifteen

Good memories such as these had ever helped me into the

arms of Morpheus, and I passed one of my rare dreamless
nights. The light of dawn was struggling through the filth of
the tiny window when I awoke. The late Mr Parminters
watch informed me that the hour of six was a quarter gone.
The cheery mood I might have expected after an undisturbed
night was somewhat dissipated by the chatter and twitter
of innumerable birds, which I had no doubt Maccabi could
name from their song alone. I was tempted to target the
bourdaloue with my morning micturition from atop my
bed, but contented myself with a more customary use of
the porcelain.
The paucity of my wardrobe was now becoming irksome
to me; as I clothed myself I resolved that Maccabi would be
the willing donor of a few items to use until the reappearance
of the esteemed Elijah Salomons, with his promises of my
gentlemans wardrobe within the week. Besides, it would be
amusing to wear fashions last worn before the Hanoverian
fop stood in for his lunatic father in matters of state and I

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expected it would discommode young Jedediah in the

extreme to loan me the best of his apparel.
Breakfast appeared to me a capital idea, and, since the
peculiar Mrs Gonderthwaite was capable of such an extrav-
agant feast as that of the previous evening, I felt that there
was some prospect of a trenchermans repast to begin the day.
The dining room, however, was deserted. I rang the disso-
nant hand bell, though there was no prospect of it being
heard in the kitchen. It would be quite inappropriate for me
to seek out the cook in the kitchen, or, God forbid, in her
chamber. For this reason I began to explore the room in ear-
nest, to see what other strange items might be found in it.
Naturally, I made straight away for the huge wardrobe
obscuring the window. Hard up against it on one side was a
chiffonier, beautiful and delicate. Sadly, its mirror was spack-
led and cracked. A great shame as it was one of the few I had
encountered in the house. I heaved it aside without ceremony,
judging it to be more easily moved than the ottoman stood
on its end adjacent the behemoth of a wardrobe on its other
side. There was no sign of the smallest finger bone: the ana-
tomical skeleton had quite vanished, although I was relieved
to see the outline of its pedestal in the dust in front of the
wainscoting.
A mans pride will withstand many things; he will usually
swallow it, however, in the hope of sending more satisfactory
victuals after it. Therefore, I took myself to where I thought
the kitchen to be. This necessitated the navigation of the fur-
niture-crammed vestibule. The narrow channels through the

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

piled tables, chairs, chaises, wardrobes, armoires, tallboys

and whatnots were somewhat confusing, and it was only at
a third attempt that I gained entry to the spur containing the
kitchen and the servants quarters. The smell was not one to
make me sanguine of a palatable breakfast. It was not the
smell of spoiled provisions, exactly, neither was it due to a
surfeit of cats, but it was a smell firmly placed somewhere
between the two. I was at that point in a sort of ante-room,
which led, I presumed, to the kitchen.
Through the door the kitchen was bathed in a gloomy
light, as though daylight itself had been poisoned into pallor.
The windows I had peered through on the previous evenings
perambulation had not been unaccountably cleaned by some
unseen hand. Nor were there any lamps or candles lit. Nei-
ther, I supposed, had Mrs Gonderthwaite even in her youth
illuminated a room. She did not that morning, rather the
gloom seeped into the room from her spindly frame, merci-
fully clothed once more in black.
It may be supposed that I did an injustice to the woman,
in referring to her as a cook. It is certain that up to that point
Gibbous House was not over-encumbered with other ser-
vants. Mrs Gonderthwaite wore a chatelaine; perhaps she
deserved the appellation housekeeper. I considered taking to
calling Maccabi the butler.
The woman appeared to be in some kind of trance or reli-
gious transport, at least of a fairly discreet kind. I passed a
hand before her eyes in an effort to engage with her. With no
discernible change in demeanour, she greeted me fulsomely.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

A very good morning to you, Mr Moffat. What might be your

requirements in the matter of breaking the fast this morning?
I searched her face for a hint of irony and was unrewarded
by any sign of emotion, sentience or clue to animation. The
woman seemed stuporous, although I could discern no whiff
of laudanum. Nevertheless, I took her up on the invitation to
stipulate my morning vittles; thinking to thoroughly fox the
woman I began a list comprising blood pudding, haslet, lamb
sausage, poached eggs, thick back bacon, fried potato farls
and china tea.
Of course, Mr Moffat. Is it just the one or am I to prepare
such for the entire household?
A look around the kitchen revealed dust in every corner.
The gleam of the copper pans the previous evening had been
illusory, most were dulled to the green of malachite. No hams
hung from the ceiling, no links of sausage in the pantry, which
seemed in general uncommon bare, save for an uncer-
tain-looking, if huge, game pie. A solitary loaf was blueing
with mould on the large and rough table. The butchers block
was bloody and devoid of any meat.
At this point I was marvelling that the room was devoid of
the idiosyncratic and serendipitous additions visible through-
out the other rooms. At that moment, however, I saw that a
highly polished sextant lay atop the stove, where one might
reasonably have expected a saucepan. The state of the kitchen
made the preparation of a meal for one as likely as Nebu-
chadnezzars feast, and so I bade her prepare for four,

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

thinking another meal would provide more sport with Mac-

cabi, even if the food proved no more than phantasy.
The woman seemed unperturbed by the state of the
kitchen. On my leaving I sensed she did not stir a whit, but
contented herself in the observation of my retreating back.
Retracing my steps through the jumble was a little easier, and
little caught my eye although I noted the variety of woods
used in the furniture had as many colours as had the leaves
of autumn. It was strange that so many pieces in spite of
standing, lying and leaning higgledy-piggledy around the
grand hallway evinced the sheen of a recent polish.
Maccabi dropped a silver spoon with a clatter on the din-
ing table as I swung the door wide. I resisted the temptation
to bid him turn out his pockets, but allowed myself a smile
at the thought of doing so. In any event, his self-possession
had deserted him and already I knew that this for him was
a rare and discomfiting experience, and, perhaps, my word-
less smile would discommode him still more. I said nothing,
and took appraisal of his attire.
It being Shabbos, I presumed he would be wearing the best
of his clothes. Since I would soon be wearing them myself, I
was disappointed to note the predominance of black and
white in the palette. Still, the cut and material seemed of
quality, despite the outmoded style. His coat, black, was dou-
ble-breasted and cut away to tails, the waist of it being very
high. Two fingers breadth of an exceedingly dull waistcoat
were visible below it. His shirt was white linen and so bright
as to beg the question of how it could be got so, above all in

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this bizarre house with its dearth of servants. The frill of his
shirt and the height of his collar were the only extravagance
of his dress. I gauged that his boots would be a comfortable
fit, being possessed of the beautiful shine that only leather of
some age may acquire, if tended with great care.
He seemed to be in the grip of some internal struggle, as
though he had noted my close regard of him and could not
resolve whether to challenge me over it. Curiosity, or some
other motive, eventually compelled him to say, You seem
uncommon interested in my garb, today, Mr Moffat.
Indeed I am, Jedediah. I rather thought you might be so
good as to loan me some articles of clothing, until such time
as that fellow of yours brings me something more suitable. If
it would not inconvenience you, that is?
Again he struggled with some inner demon, before saying
stiffly, Of course, sir.
Oh, you are most kind, Maccabi. If you would but lay out
the clothes you are wearing on my cot by ten on the morrow.
I have in mind to escort Miss Pardoner to church in Bam-
burgh. You would not care to come, I take it.
He shook his head for answer and departed with unseemly
alacrity, I thought.
The dining table was still as we had left it the evening
before. Scraps of food littered the plates and the area of table
where the professor had teetered on his perch. The decanter
of port was empty of all but the lees, although I was sure I
had left sufficient to charge a good two glasses.
Some of this quantity lay in a congealed and sticky pool

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

beside the decanter, indicating that the remainder had been

quaffed some hours before. I would have paid a sovereign to
have known by whom. Thankfully for my sanity, a tantalus
identical to that from which the professor and I had availed
ourselves in the library stood on the sideboard. One
decanter was full of the same near-to-high-quality jerez we
had drunk, and I poured myself a generous schooner. I
removed to my seat at table with decanter and glass and
awaited developments in the matter of breaking my fast.
My disappointment that the next person to come through
the dining room door was not the ethereal Mrs Gonderth-
waite with my breakfast was tempered by the realisation that
it was, in fact, the intriguing Miss Pardoner. My ward was
wearing a day dress in a dark shade of a still unsuitable blue,
with a lace chemisette and cuffs. She carried a pair of short
leather gloves in one hand. The young womans hair was
most unfashionably short and made a pleasant change from
the parted and sausage-curled coiffures that were common
during that decade. I declared my surprise that she had such
a dress to hand despite the absence of her effects, which were
still en route from Lindisfarne.
You would be surprised what can be found within the
walls of your property, Mr Moffat, she replied.
I should only be surprised, Miss Pardoner, if I ceased to
be surprised.
My reward was the upward curl of her lip, an expression
of hers that from the very outset might have provoked me to
either violence or lust, or perhaps both in equal measure, but

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for the heightened enjoyment provided by patience and antic-

ipation. The young woman took her place at table and I felt
in need of a spyglass to see her the better. It was most strange
to conduct our conversation in the manner of Irish navvies
across a canal. Her not-unpleasant voice carried well, and I
imagined her on stage as a Cleopatra or Lady Macbeth
though certainly not as Juliet.
Might we not ride out today, Mr Moffat?
Are you not frum, Miss Pardoner? I asked.
I was born a Jew, Mr Moffat, though I have spent some
years in the care of Christians. I wonder that you should
know such a word.
I felt there might be some doubt as to the truth of the
former.
My wife was Jewish. Septimus Cobles great-niece, in fact.
You are no Jew, sir. She looked at me expectantly.
Scarce a Christian, some would say.
Something of the pagan about you, Mr Moffat, I think.
She was quite the most brazen woman I had ever met out-
side Whitechapel, and she was bolder still than many of
those. In common with many women of my acquaintance it
was not in her nature to allow a silence of any duration;
therefore, in the absence of any responding remark from
myself, she queried, Are we to breakfast on apples and honey
this morning, sir?
I replied that I should be most astounded if we broke our
fast at all.
At which point, the dining room door opened wide and the

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

narrow-boned figure of the cook was preceded by the huge

covered salver I had been so surprised at her carrying so
easily the previous day. She placed the silver-domed platter
on the table at the mid-point and removed the cover with
what passed in so flat a character as a flourish.
Displayed attractively was every victual I had specified: the
steam rose from the lamb sausage and blood pudding and I
could have sworn I still heard their sizzling; the potato farls
each had a knob of butter atop, slowly melting and pooling
beside them on the polished plate; the white of the poached
eggs contrasted sharply with the rich pink of the back bacon,
which had proved surprisingly plentiful in such a household.
Mrs Gonderthwaite gave me an expectant look.
China tea, Mrs Gonderthwaite. China tea, I said.
The lid was replaced with some enthusiasm and the thin
woman repaired to the kitchen with as much animation as
she had thus far evinced in my presence.
It was Maccabi who returned with the tea. He looked quite
ludicrously uncomfortable bearing the silver salver on which
stood a fine china tea service. His discomfort most likely
arose from the height at which he bore the tray quite why
he felt the need to keep the china level with his gaze was a
mystery to me. Perhaps he was as yet unused to such duties.
He placed the tray delicately on the table beside the huge
domed platter. This done, he looked toward me. I gave a nod
and waved at the breakfast feast under its silver cover. There
was nothing for it but to use the previous evenings crockery,

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and he made a good fist of serving Miss Pardoner and myself,

prior to serving himself an egg and a potato farl.
I was unable to resist enquiring if it was quite in accor-
dance with kashrut to eat comestibles that had been in such
proximity to the meat of the unclean pig. Maccabi said not a
word; Miss Pardoner, however, rejoindered, Some interpreta-
tions of the Torah allow for the eating of treif in situations of
dire need, Mr Moffat. On the whole, I have found the Jewish
religion to contain much good sense.
Since I had shared a bed with Arabella, I knew some of
what the Torah might or might not permit, but still I won-
dered what dire need might be in evidence in this case.
Addressing neither party in particular, I enquired, Is the
professor not in the habit of breaking his fast in the morning?
Maccabi, seated at last, took his delicate china cup and
drained the tea in one noisy draught. My ward said, His
custom is not to rise in the forenoon.
Perhaps he lay awake until the small hours contemplating.
It occurred to me I had failed to enquire in what discipline
the professor had made his reputation. I made great show of
emptying my own thimbleful of tea and looked expectantly
at Maccabi. The noise as his cup clattered and smashed on
the table was as nothing compared to that of his chair falling
to the floor. With exaggerated stiffness and formality, he
poured my tea, splashing only a little on my coat sleeve.
Addressing the fascinating Miss Pardoner, more to hear
what outrage she would commit on decorum than out of any

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genuine interest, I enquired, And in what particular field has

the esteemed professor made his undoubted reputation?
Miss Pardoner appeared not to consider her reply. Profes-
sor Jedermann is a polymath, simply put. A master of natural
sciences, philosophies ancient and modern, an expert on art,
a bibliophile of great passion. Enoch studied with the philos-
opher Johann Gottlieb Fichte, a thing in itself that is
remarkable, given the mans expressed desire to remove all
Jewish heads and replace them with others containing not a
single Jewish idea. I am glad you do not enquire of the man
himself; Enoch is a little self-conscious.
It seemed such a preposterous thing for a philosopher, even
a German one, to be: I was unsure as to whether the minx
was mocking me in the extreme, or wished to indicate in what
high esteem the professors abilities were held. Equally, I
found it strange that a man so tolerant of others religion
would associate with one with so noted a hatred of Jews.
How comes he here? There is hardly a seat of learning
here in Northumbria. A man would have to ride as far as
Durham to discuss the most mundane of philosophical posits,
would he not?
It was Maccabi who answered this, a little shortly for my
liking. He is the curator of the Collection.
I was quite unable to contain a snort of laughter, and
would have made great mock of this portentous statement
had not the dining room doors swung wide open. Mrs
Gonderthwaite, having recovered her temper, said in a voice
devoid of modulation, Mr Moffat, there is someone without.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

This utterance seemed a little deficient in the matter of

information, but the woman was already gliding to the
entrance hall and the house door. Had I not seen her naked,
I could have believed the woman less than corporeal.

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 Chapter Sixteen

Before the door, cap in hand, was a grubby specimen of the

local population. His trousers were better called rags and,
though his feet were shod, his boots were an uncommon
mismatch in colour, design and, it appeared, fit. He was pos-
sessed of a prodigious beard but no moustaches, and his pate
was as bald as his lip. The single tooth in his head endowed
each sibilant with a comical whistle, while his Northumbrian
accent rendered intelligibility a hopeless dream.
The bold Miss Pardoner had followed me to the door
although my factotum, strangely, had not. My ward informed
me that the man, an itinerant labourer currently employed on
the estate, had discovered a body in the pond. She may well
have understood the man, but I should not have been sur-
prised to learn that she had observed events the previous
evening from some vantage point in the house.
Tell the oaf to show us the place.
Miss Pardoners smirk was again in evidence as I strode
out the door and turned right, in the opposite direction to
that in which the pond lay.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Find out the fellows name, Miss Pardoner.

Its Cullis, Mr Moffat. Or that is the name I saw in the
account book yesterday, where he made his mark against it
this last month.
We made an odd trio as we walked along the fore wall of
the east wing. Cullis was as bent and wiry as an old man, but
he was most likely only a few years older than I. Miss Par-
doner seemed as youthful and vibrant as a butterfly between
a gorse and a briar bush. I hoped she would live longer than
any lepidoptera might. We rounded the wing and paused on
the terrace.
Where might this pond be? I said, looking to the wrong
side of the hill.
Over there to the left, Mr Moffat. Can you not hear the
frogs and fowl?
Of course I could and I could also see that there was
grave danger of overplaying any hand whilst in the company
of my ward.
Over by the pond, I pretended no shock or disgust at the
sight of the broken body. The shepherds head was bent at a
most unlikely angle and thus I deduced that, as I had thought,
whether by the blow from the rock or by the fall the man had
been dead before reaching the water.
Who is it?
Miss Pardoner had not time to supply the answer before
Cullis.
Wor Lad.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Which seemed a strange name of eastern European origin

to me, until Miss Pardoner explained that it meant the corpse
was that of Culliss younger sibling.
The still-ambulatory of the two seemed little moved by
his brothers fate, as far as I could tell. His cap was rolled
tightly in his fists and he worked his jaw energetically, but
of his strange dialect he uttered not a word. I did not feel
obliged to console the fellow, but I did want the cadaver
removed from the pond, so I asked, Is he for burial on the
parish, then?
The jaw continued its exercise, until Miss Pardoner used
her own to more communicative purpose:
It may not be a matter for the coroner, but perhaps we
might send for the constable at Bamburgh, Mr Moffat?
And pray tell, whom would we despatch on such a vital
mission? was my counter.
I think Maccabi would be pleased to go, if I were to ask
him.
I shall tell him, Miss Pardoner. I shall tell him.
Maccabi departed with no good grace atop an equine
specimen quite as poor as the one that had dragged us both
round half of Northumberland.
Miss Pardoner escorted Cullis vivendum and me to the
rear of the property via the strange windowless wall to the
servants entrance on the far side. While one Cullis rested in
relative peace among the croaking and quacking, the other
was left in the care of Mrs Gonderthwaite in the kitchen,

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although it still seemed as unlikely a source of provender as

before. Miss Pardoner and I passed through the kitchen into
the servants quarters.
Perhaps I could show you these apartments, Mr Moffat?
She raised an eyebrow.
Are you so well acquainted with them? I raised an eye-
brow of my own.
No more than I care to be, sir.
I bade her lead on.
There were rooms right and left off a corridor leading to
the buildings end. The first door on my right I knew to be
Mrs Gonderthwaites, and I merely put my head around the
door to satisfy myself that it contained neither malkin,
broomstick nor cauldron. We continued to look into the
rooms on the right hand. In contrast with the lunatic accu-
mulation of artefacts and furnishing in the rest of the house,
these rooms had merely devoted themselves to the accretion
of years of dust and dirt.
The fifth door down was that of Maccabis recent habita-
tion; on opening the door I saw the cleanliness of it for
myself. This, and the meticulous order of the room, I had
been expecting. What I had not expected was the sight of
Miss Pardoners teal-blue skirts of the previous day folded
neatly on the cot. Her look was frank and I might easily have
been convinced of the truth of her words, claiming that Mr
Maccabi was quite the hand with a needle and thread, were
I as big a dolt as she thought me.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

I wonder he did not offer to tailor my wardrobe himself,

I said.
We left Maccabis room in silence, but not before I had
skewed a picture frame or two and dishevelled the immacu-
late bedclothes. I derived some satisfaction from this until I
caught sight of Miss Pardoners crooked smile.
The door rattled in its frame behind me. There were two
more doors on the right-hand wall; the corresponding doors
on the opposite wall were not in themselves opposing doors.
Again, the unknown architects mania for the asymmetrical
was in evidence. I tried the door on the left-hand wall nearest
that of Maccabi. It was locked, with a serviceable enough
mechanism, since my furious boot did not render the room
any more accessible.
Perhaps I should summon Mrs Gonderthwaite... or at
least fetch a key from her?
It was a most reasonable suggestion.
It will wait for another day. I limped along the corridor
toward the kitchen.
It took all of my self-control not to laugh aloud at the
flushed face of Mrs Gonderthwaite as she attempted to repair
her dshabill. Culliss reaction to his brothers timely
reminder of his own mortality had obviously encouraged him
to affirm his own vitality in the time-honoured way. For all
the womans ethereality, it seemed she still had a taste for
carnal pursuits.
More restraint still was required when I espied the colour
the scene and its implications had brought to young Ellen

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Pardoners face. Turning to Cullis, I enquired what tasks

he performed on the estate. After Miss Pardoners interpreta-
tion, it was no great surprise that, amongst other things,
he carried out the duties of ostler. This accounted to some
degree for the parlous state of the two horses that I had thus
far seen.
I instructed Cullis to show me the stables, and as he made
his way outside without too much delay I inferred that his
inability to communicate in any civilised language did not
preclude his understanding of it. Miss Pardoner made as if to
accompany us, but I waved her away, saying, I think we will
come to some understanding, Cullis and I, regarding commu-
nication. There is nothing he might say which I might wish
to understand, and should he lose his facility to understand
my wishes well, I shall beat him, of course.
Evidently the cook felt only passion for the fellow, and not
love, as this declaration provoked not the slightest reaction
from the ghostly presence. Not so Miss Pardoner; the high
colour returned to her face and I fancied I detected a little
shortness of breath. Perhaps I should have allowed her to
accompany us, after all.
The stables were set away from the rear of the west wing.
The kindest thing to say would have been that they were in
no worse repair than the gatehouse. The building itself
housed a long row of twelve stalls, the half of which were
not in possession of a door to close. Stone-built, the mortar
in the walls had long since turned to dust, and so the stables
resembled a remarkable feat of dry-stone wallwork, but not

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one that could be trusted to hold up the roof for much longer.
The roof consisted of more hole than slate: the feeble whin-
nies emerging from behind the few stalls still capable of being
secured bore testimony to its permeability.
Cullis opened the door to the first occupied stall. Filthy
straw covered little of the dirt floor, and a roan bag of bones
covered most of it. It appeared that the two horses put to
work in recent days were the most fit. This specimen looked
a scant cough from the knackers. The ostler carefully closed
the stall door as if frightened that too vigourous treatment
would cause it to crumble on the hinge. Moving to the next
door, he was equally ginger in his handling of it, pausing only
to say something which I took to be foal.
The door swung wide to reveal a recently come to term
mare and something that should by rights have earned the
name abomination and not foal. The thing, to my eye, was no
more than two hours old, still sticky-slick with birthing
fluids. It lay next to its dam, which from time to time flailed
with hind legs to push the beast away. It managed to keep one
of the heads out of harms way, the other was bloodied and
as dim of eye as the stuffed exhibits in the house.
Culliss head nodded vigourously after I instructed him to
be rid of the abomination instanter. I wondered that he had
not already done so, but perhaps such gumption was not
common among the local population. The man showed me a
further four horses in varying states of neglect. Quizzing the
fellow as to the reason for such negligence returned no com-
munication meaningful to me, therefore I told him in no

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uncertain terms that I expected such beasts as could be saved

to be both fed by him and attended by the veterinary. For
good measure I added that I expected to save the payment for
disposal of the abomination and any horse beyond salvation,
since Cullis could see to it himself. He held out a hand. I
placed a small silver coin in it, and resolved to discuss the
estates arrangements for my living allowance with the dwarf
when he stirred from his chambers.
Turning from the stables, I skirted the feline-occupied west
wing. The smell was discernible from without, no doubt per-
mitted to befoul the air by the quantity of broken window
glass. Most confounding was the near immaculate state of the
roof. I noted one slate hanging askew: there must have been
several thousand comprising the roof. The lead looked new.
Two doors let into the rear wall of this wing, each was
warped, rotted and sealed by a padlocked chain, with a bar
athwart the door itself. Naturally, I peered through one of the
windows, but there was little to see through the grime and
the cat that leaped hissing at the pane of glass unnerved
me somewhat.
At the gable end of the wing a blank and featureless
expanse of red brick soared to the roof: it made one dizzy to
look at it. The corners of the wall where the brick met the
sandstone of the rest of the building were most jarring. To the
front elevation, the west wing appeared more presentable,
though the architects devotion to asymmetry was served here
by thirteen identical windows that ran along the front.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

These did anything but mirror the hodge-podge of designs of

the east wings variegated glaziery, which numbered at least
sixteen.

144
 Chapter Seventeen

It was a fine day and I regretted the absence of any suitable

mounts for Ellen Pardoner to ride out upon. I let out a sigh,
turned to the front door and swung the grinning monkeys
head with some venom, expecting that Mrs Gonderthwaite
would appear eventually. The door, however, opened almost
immediately. Miss Pardoner offered a sketch of a courtesy
which I returned with a bare nod, whilst I wondered if there
were anything which she did that was not informed by a most
knowing irony.
The very moment I crossed the threshold, the professor
appeared from behind the trompe loeil like a mischievous
sprite. He halloed us cheerily from the head of the staircase
and waved, savouring the opportunity, most likely, to look
down upon us. Taking the stairs with his peculiar scuttling
gait, he held up a hand to hold me fast in the vestibule. As his
tiny limbs skittered to a halt on the parquet of the floor, he
said, Mr Moffat, would you be so kind as to attend me once
more in the library? I think perhaps you have a question or

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

two about your situation. I shall do my utmost to answer

them as fully as ever I can.
I would not be so kind, Professor: I prefer that you attend
me in whatever place I choose. The library will suit me as well
as any.
The professor accepted this with little outward damage to
his equanimity.
Quite so, Mr Moffat, I forget myself.
But I thought perhaps that he did not and I caught the
briefest glimpse once more of the corrupt and evil gnome I
believed him to be.
You will excuse us, Miss Pardoner, I said as I turned to
that lady.
It seems I must, she replied.
I was disappointed to see that she seemed unperturbed by
the prospect, and we abandoned her in the vestibule among
the vertiginously piled furniture.
This time I led the professor through the dining room,
hearing the familiar snick snack of his dainty feet on the
flooring. The debris of breakfast yet remained on the table. In
the next room, the stuffed menagerie proved more sinister
than I had previously thought: one corner at the far end of
the room appeared to be dedicated to a collection of the most
fantastical chimerae. The unknown taxidermist had created
vile corruptions and combinations of fowl, fish and fauna.
For seasoning there were one or two examples of the kind
of abomination I had seen in the stables. I had read that cer-
tain collectors in Bavaria had a taste for such pieces; many

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 EWAN LAWRIE

purchasers actually believed them exemplars of formerly

living beasts.
A little Germanic for my taste, Professor. And so much
effort to create such unconvincing monsters, dont you
agree? I asked him.
Much in science as in creation is unlikely, Mr Moffat,
he replied.
We passed into the room with the picture-covered walls,
where again the queasy feeling forced me onward quickly. In
the room containing the geological specimens I picked up a
beautiful milky stone and pocketed it. It was the largest opal
I had ever seen. I turned to read the expression on the profes-
sors face, but there was none. The vivarium was filled with
the sounds of its diurnal occupants. Intent as I was on reach-
ing the library, I did not peer too closely at the vitrines as I
passed them, although I had the impression of unnatural
forms moving behind them. Thankfully in the library itself,
the hubbub made by the slithering and the rubbing of insect
legs was inaudible.
I poured the professor and myself some of the almost
excellent sherry, and lifted my glass.
To purgatory, I said.
Too kind, the man replied.
The glasses drained, he held his upward expectantly and,
as a good host should, I obliged him by filling it.
Ssssssssoo, what can I tell you, Mr Moffat? What is it you
wish to know?
I could not get used to his accent, the serpentine hiss of his

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

sibilants, the constant confusion of the v and w sounds. At

times I felt it verged on self-parody and that he was having a
joke at my expense.
There were a number of questions I could have put to him
concerning the run-down and ill-cared-for appearance of the
estate. I might even have asked him for a calculation of the
estates worth and probable income. Instead, I asked, What
is the Collection? What is its purpose?
The little man nodded and it seemed there was a gleam of
respect in his eye, as though this were the very question he
would have asked, were he in my position. Unfortunately,
his answer was as enigmatic as so much else in the house.
Its purpose is: to remain, to be studied, to be treasured. To
add to the sum of knowledge. What nobler purpose could
there be?
This was twaddle of the lowest order.
But its value, Jedermann, its value?
Priceless, Mr Moffat, priceless as all knowledge must
be.
It being too much of an effort to reach down and throttle
him, I contented myself with enquiring angrily, Professor,
what I have so far seen is a motley assemblage of furnishings,
objets dart and mystre, geological specimens, preposterous
exemplars of taxidermy and the devil knows what creatures.
What possible motive is there to call such a thing a collection?
The malignant look reappeared once more. Why, Mr
Moffat, it has been collected, has it not?
By whom? And how?

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Perhaps you would rather not know?

I dashed his glass from his lips and he leaped back nimbly
as it shattered at his feet. This time I did seize him by his
shirt-front and lifted his face to mine. How much? How
much can I expect per annum, you weasel?
If you set me down, I shall show you the accounts,
Mr Moffat.
I released my grip and he landed gracefully, more was the
pity. His shoulders rocked from side to side as he scampered
over to the very last rack of shelves in the librarys corner.
Using the lip of each shelf, rather in the manner of a monkey,
he clambered to the very highest of them and seized in a fist
a prodigiously sized ledger. He jumped to the floor and
landed as nimbly as hed climbed.
He proffered the ledger to me. It was bound in cracked and
stained leather; I laid the weighty tome on one of the low
tables nearby. I opened it at random to the entry for the week
beginning 13th December 182_. Long columns of neat and
rounded figures culminated in totals possessing too few digits
to offer me encouragement. I flicked the yellowed pages until
it lay open at the beginning of the current year. It seemed as
though the ledger had been annotated with the express pur-
pose of obscuring the destinations of outgoings and the
sources of income.
Jedermann, a summary if you please.
It was not a tale pleasing to the ear or the pocket. There
were tenant farmers, there were sheep, there was the public
house in Seahouses and very little more which produced

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

an income. Furthermore, there were endless purchases of

sundry goods and portable property. It was a desperate state
of affairs.
We shall have to sell what we can, I said.
We cannot sell anything, Mr Moffat. Those are the terms
of the trust.
I kicked the low table and the ledger fell to the floor crack-
ing the spine, the book an apt metaphor for the broken-
down house.
The professor bent, admittedly not far, and retrieved the
ledger. I had already turned my back upon him and was
perusing the nearest rack of shelves. Once more I was struck
by the random arrangement. There had been no catalogue
made of these tomes. If anything, the books stood on the
shelves with less care for their content or origin than those
on the shelves in the professors own chamber.
The row that met my eye contained an older copy of Mal-
leus Maleficarum than mine own, standing at the left-hand
end of the shelf. To its right was a sumptuously bound copy
of Humes Essays, Moral and Political the next book was a
work by John Dee, the Elizabethan alchemist. Cheek by jowl
with this stood a book with something in the Arabic script
upon the spine. A tag of paper protruded from between its
pages, I withdrew it. It appeared to be a translation of the
books title: The Polished Book on Experimental Ophthal-
mology by Ibn Al Nafis.
Dropping the scrap to the floor, my finger traced the spines
of works sacred and profane, ancient and modern, until my

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 EWAN LAWRIE

eye at last stopped upon a book bound in cordovan leather,

blackened with age and the touch of many fingers. The cover
bore the symbol on the sign of the Coble Inn. It was a small
volume of a size to slip into a pocket. The title on the spine
read Secrets of the Rosy Cross. I noted the name of the author
was Septimus Coble. I remembered discussions of Elizabeths
star gazer in the Edinburgh asylum, and therefore, out of I
know not what sentiment, placed only this lighter tome in
my coat.
At this point the library door opened with a clamour not
usually associated with such places of placid learning. A
breathless Miss Pardoner informed me that Maccabi had
returned and would speak with me if it were not inconve-
nient. I toyed with inconveniencing the man, but had to admit
to myself that, one day, the vice of curiosity might be my
undoing. Therefore I followed Miss Pardoner out of the
library, the professor tip-tapping behind in arthropod synco-
pation. As we were leaving the nightmare picture gallery, the
professor tugged at my sleeve and whispered, There is noth-
ing to worry about: as above, so below.
I shook off the demented gnomes hand and hurried to
meet Maccabi.

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 Chapter Eighteen

My retainer stood erect and soldier-like amidst the furniture

in the vestibule, something I noted with a certain satisfaction.
I hailed him. Well met, Maccabi. What news? Are the forces
of law on their way?
He shifted from foot to foot. Yes. That is, well, a constable
is on his way, having instructed the drayman to transport
him hither.
Indeed, remarkable initiative for a policeman, is it not?
Again he moved his feet. It was the reporters idea.
I laughed aloud.
Reporter? Here? Maccabi, I would have thought you inca-
pable of such a ludic jest!
He is from the Alnwick Mercury, sir. He happened to be
in Seahouses. There was nothing I could do.
And why should you have done aught, you buffoon?
He kept his counsel at that, so I enquired when he thought
they might arrive. To which he replied, Within the hour.
Best someone renders my home into a more appropriate

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 EWAN LAWRIE

estate for the reception of visitors, be they only a Peeler and

a scribe.
Maccabi made for the servants quarters with a stamping
gait, although I surmised Mrs Gonderthwaite and Cullis
would be of little help to him.

Miss Pardoner was not in evidence I was unsure as to where

she might be. For no other reason than a want of anything
better to do, I thought I might take a promenade along the
drive to the gatehouse. The day was fulfilling its early prom-
ise: the sun was high overhead and the drive descended
between the rolling hillocks and unsupervised ovines. The
panorama was the epitome of bucolic paradise. Et in Arcadia
ego sum would have been appropriate indeed but for the
unfortunate lack of shepherds. The gatehouse looked scarcely
better from the rear. A trellis enlivened the darkened sand-
stone and provided a home for several dull-coloured avian
specimens the only evidence of life in the building.
The rear elevation was possessed of the remnants of a
door, the boards warped and cracked so that tongue had long
parted company with any groove. From the scraps of paint
that clung to the weathered wood, I could tell that its colour
had once been green. I found it a little humorous that some-
one in the distant past had locked the door. I removed a
board at a time and entered the ruin.
Inside, I was greeted by a multitudinous flapping of wings
and a screeching that might be associated with vermin. Such
the bats were, I supposed. Some flapping of my own dispersed

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

them to their inverted perches in the rotten-timbered rafters.

It was a single-story building. The room I had entered was
or had been a scullery.
Through a void doorway I saw a sitting room, sofa rotted
and chewed by some or other fauna. Once inside I saw that
it was furnished with a window to the front and a door to
another room on the side wall. It seemed in reasonable con-
dition and it was locked. Once more I perceived a dissonance
between the outward dimensions and the internal disposition
of the building. The scullery, the only room to the rear of the
building, was considerably smaller than the sum of the area
of the two rooms to the front, however tiny the locked room
might prove to be. On the wall opposite the mysteriously
sealed room was a door to the exterior, presumably to enable
the erstwhile gatekeeper to facilitate access for visitors to
the estate.
I was on the point of leaving when the toe of my boot met
with a hard object that slid rattling along the floor. A large
and rusted ring holding one solitary key lay on the floor-
boards, half hidden by the remnants of the sofas skirts. I
picked it up: it appeared to be a key for a mortice lock and
of an appropriate size to allow access to the sealed room. It
was disturbing to note that aside from a modicum of dirt,
dust and damage from rodent teeth the door was in unfea-
sibly good repair.
The key turned slickly and I opened the door, which
offered no protesting creak or indeed any indication that it
was in less than daily use. The room was small but could not

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 EWAN LAWRIE

have squared with the paradox of the scullerys dimensions.

It could not possibly have been an illusion of the optical kind,
or if it were I could not begin to guess the mechanics of it.
The outside of the building was clearly based on the standard
box-like shape: to the eye, all vertices were isometric and
angles isogonal. And yet.
There was nothing peculiar or noteworthy about the room
itself save that it was in better condition than many in the
main house. It seemed that a duster had been in use within
the last few days, which was more than could be said of many
of the rooms I had seen of late. I could see no items of a per-
sonal nature. The furniture was serviceable, if plain,
comprising a narrow bed, some drawers and a chair. I was
unsurprised by the absence of a mirror. The only remarkable
thing about the room was its resident, who sat motionless in
the chair. He, for it was a man, showed little emotion at my
intrusion into his sanctum. I was foolish enough to attempt
to engage him in conversation before I noticed the peculiar
leathery texture of his skin and the glassy unblinking eyes.
For me this latest specimen of the taxidermists art was by
far the most disturbing. I wondered who the poor fellow had
been, and how he had come to such a pass. At that point, I
heard the crunch of wheels coming to a stop.
Withdrawing from the room and quickly locking it behind
me, I opened the door to the side and peered out. Two fel-
lows, one uniformed, one not, both a little bedraggled and in
the act of removing straw from their persons, were arrived in
the back of a farmers cart. Plainly, I was to play gatekeeper

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

for the reporter and the constable. Moving to the gate, I saw
that Maccabi had had the foresight to leave the chain un-
padlocked, and with some effort I removed the heavy chain
from the iron gates. I looked up expectantly at the passengers.
The constable attempted to speak first, but the reporter, who
appeared to think much of himself for a fellow with straw in
his hat, interrupted.
Edgar Allan, Alnwick Mercury: Constable Turner is here
about the body. Show us up, man.
There was something odd about the mans accent, but I
was more concerned about his presumption in judging me a
servant of the house. Perhaps I would avail myself of Macca-
bis raiment sooner than planned. Nonetheless, I waved them
through and followed the cart up the drive, losing very little
in distance thanks to the dilatory nature of both horse and
driver. The cart pulled up at the doorway, which opened
to reveal Maccabi. The man was either prescient or had
intended to wait on the threshold until the constables arrival.
To my reckoning there was no vantage point over the drive
from which he could possibly have arrived so quickly at
the entrance.
The visitors alighted from the rustic vehicle, the reporter
somewhat more nimbly than the policeman. Allans introduc-
tion was the same terse, almost brusque, pronouncement he
had given me. The constable appeared to have given up hope
of getting the first word in any exchange. Maccabi raised his
eyebrows at me over Allans shoulder; I gave him a rapid
shake of the head.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

He spoke. Good morning, gentlemen. I shall show you to

the unfortunate fellows last resting place.
He addressed me then. Moffat, accompany us, we may
need to move the cadaver.
The man was not so dull as to misunderstand that I wished
for the time to remain incognito, but I felt he could have
relished the peremptory tone a little less.
We went, passing swift, on foot to the pond. Allan kept up
a rattling farrago of questions that Maccabi wisely ignored,
whilst I brought up the rear behind my supposed betters. If
the policeman was peevish at this usurpation of his role,
he hid it well behind his silence. The angle of the late shep-
herds neck was still convincing enough to my eye to be the
cause of death. The silent policeman bent down to examine
the body more closely. The greater part of it was not under-
water, only one leg, and the other below the knee. The
constable lifted each leg carefully out of the water and uttered
but one word: Broken.
Cullis deceaseds tumble down the hillside had been a pre-
cipitous one, true, but I was mildly surprised at this
intelligence. I stood a little closer, the better to hear any more
gobbets of wisdom that might fall from the policemans lips.
The man ran his hands the length of the body, felt the neck
with its improbable angle and discovered I assumed from
the wordless grunt he gave when he felt the cranium the site
of the blow I had dealt the shepherd.
Allan had followed this with feverish attention, all the while
scribbling in his damned notebook. I was half expecting no,

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

gleefully anticipating the next terse utterance from the

policemans mouth, which was, of course, Murder.
Maccabi was completely and utterly unmoved. Allan grew
still more excitable, asking me, Know him, did you? Like
him? Likeable fellow, was he?
I did not, sir, I am recently arrived myself.
If the scribbler had noticed that my own diction was some-
what more refined than his own, he gave no sign of it, merely
turning his fervid eye on Maccabi and sending a further salvo
of questions in his direction. Maccabi caught my eye with a
questioning look and I gave him a nod. The man was no
dullard, I had to allow him that.
He began the introductions forthwith; again, for a reporter,
Allan proved remarkably unobservant or the scribbling
was proof of a prodigiously unreliable memory. It appeared
he had not noticed my sudden promotion to master of
Gibbous House. It interested me more that the policeman did
not care to make anything of my brief masquerade as a
humble servant.
So, Constable Turner, may the cadaver be despatched to
the undertakers? I fear his brother is determined to achieve a
rapid burial.
Turner merely uttered Brother? in the most quizzical
manner, and I suggested we all repair to the house to discuss
what should next be done. The policeman strode purpose-
fully toward the house entrance, thwarting my intention to
herd the both of them in via the servants entrance. The
reporter, perhaps affronted by being ignored, took to reading

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 EWAN LAWRIE

aloud excerpts from his notebook. It seemed his handwriting

was not of the highest quality as, amongst other things, I was
surprised to learn that I had in my employ one Zebediah
Macindoe and that a shepherd named Portcullis was recently
found murdered in a pound.

159
 Chapter Nineteen

In an effort to restore the correct social order, I steered the

company into the kitchen; Mrs Gonderthwaite was present,
at least in what passed for the flesh, Cullis vivat was not. The
cook-cum-chatelaine was in a distracted state, stirring the
empty air in front of her with a wooden spoon. I bellowed
TEA at a suitably insistent distance from her blank face. She
came to herself immediately, although quite unstartled, and
busied herself with a large kettle. There were some rustic
chairs near to a large table and we all, save Constable Turner
and the cook, availed ourselves of the little comfort they
offered. No one spoke, not even the reporter.
Believing the policemans silence a clumsy effort to tempt
one or other of us into some rash utterance of use to him, I
took the opportunity to study him more closely. He was not
young, and in common with the men of his age in this area
he sported the ruddy flush of the outdoor life. I had been long
enough in Northumbria to note the savage winds and it
seemed forty years experience of them tinted the cheeks a
vibrant red. His whiskers were fairly restrained for a man of

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 EWAN LAWRIE

his class; I could not see the colour of his hair for the incon-
gruous top hat, which, I noted, he forbore to remove in my
house. I wondered that the policemen themselves did not
demand some more practical and sartorially harmonious
headgear. His uniform fit as many such garments do
where it might. The dark-blue serge of his tailcoat strained at
certain seams and bagged voluminously in others. His trou-
sers were white in colour and still less practical than the hat.
The boots had been polished to a high shine, but were a little
dusty after their journey in the cart.
I had been sure the reporter would fill the aural void, but
he merely contented himself with running his finger along the
lines of his notebook and mouthing the words, occasionally
looking up as if startled by the surreal world his note-taking
had created. It was Maccabi who proved least able to bear
the inscrutable silence of the policeman. Clearing his throat,
he said, Constable, ah... ; he shifted uncomfortably in his
seat, surely you dont think...
His voice trailed off and I was convinced he was squirming
under the gimlet eye of the policeman. The Peeler replied, I
do think, Mr Maccabi. The detection of crime is a cerebral
pursuit.
This was a veritable feat of oratory from the taciturn offi-
cer. Allan looked up sharply from his notebook.
Detection? What do you mean?
He withdrew a pair of spectacles from a pocket of his
coat and placed them so that he could peer over them at
the policeman. He then scribbled the word in his notebook

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

and looked up expectantly. Perhaps vanity had prevented

him from using the eye-glasses earlier, although I supposed
no ocular improvements would improve his pencraft.
The work of a detective, Mr Allan. Or, more correctly, a
detective policeman.
The reporter scrawled again, but looked none the wiser.
The constable went on at some length concerning the collec-
tion of clues and evidence, the use of reasoning, corollary and
surmise to bring criminals to justice. The very idea of such a
person sounded like something from the most outlandish
novel. I wished for a little more of his erstwhile brevity. The
reporter continued to scribe as though in the role of Jehovahs
amanuensis, and Maccabi fidgeted like a bored girl. Had it
not amused me so, I would have found it uncomfortable to
watch.
Eventually, the soi-disant police detective appeared to
realise that his proselytising on the innovatory development
in the world of police work was hindering the investi-
gation. He stopped in the midst of some many-syllabled neol-
ogism, his mouth closing like a gin-trap sprung by an
unwitting badger. The reporter gave a great sigh at this devel-
opment. The constable turned his gaze once more to Maccabi,
who had not desisted in his squirming at any point. What
possessed Maccabi to utter the following, I did not know.
The body, Cullis, I should like to see to its removal...
If...
His resolve withered under the stare.
Its just, his brother... . He faltered again.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

The policeman let him fidget a little longer, then said, All
in good time, Mr Maccabi. The brother might be summoned,
I take it?
Myself, I would have found this new departure into civil-
ised speech an unnerving departure. Maccabi relaxed a little,
and, voicing his compliance loudly, dashed out to the ser-
vants entrance, presumably towards the stables.
The uncompanionable silence prevailed once more and I
was glad of it, idly perusing the peculiar figure of the news-
paperman scribbling at the table. He seemed to be about
forty-five years of age. I remarked in him the inclination to a
furtive and timid manner as observed in such people as are
unused to the fugitive life and who seldom prosper long in
it. He was of middling height, dark of hair and with eyes of
the wateriest blue, save for those parts that by rights should
have been white, which were threaded with a myriad of red
filaments. Whether this was a symptom of some undiagnosed
affliction or simply a sign of the extent to which his vanity
prevented him from wearing the eye-glasses he so clearly
needed, I did not know. His attire was, I had to admit, as
garish as something I might have worn had I not benefited
from the much-needed education in matters of taste that my
late wife had given me. His tailcoat was high in the waist and
long in the tails. It was violet not a sin in itself, of course.
His trousers, however, were a plaid monstrosity such as might
have been worn by one of the more unlikely mechanicals in
one of Scotts puerile romances. Perhaps his eye-glasses

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

should have been the first item assumed on rising from

his bed.
Maccabi returned in the time it took to note these things
which is to say, in no time at all. He was unaccompanied
and prevailed on the constable to make shift to the stables, as
Cullis was unable to enter the house at that moment. The
reporter leapt to his feet, intent on witnessing the interview. I
thought I might follow suit and it struck me that I had there-
tofore seen no sign of a notebook in Turners hands. Perhaps
an extraordinary memory was another aspect of the new
science of detection.
Outside, Cullis was waiting. He had assumed a rough and
filthy leather apron over his clothes, although they would not
have been ruined by any amount of the blood coating the
roughly cured skin. In either hand he held an extremely large
and bloodied knife; the one blade was toothed in the manner
of a saw and the other visible as being exceptionally keen
even to the naked eye. The reporter looked wide-eyed as
though in fear of his life. The policeman was stolidly silent. I
considered that this detection seemed to be a remarkably
passive activity. Then Maccabi turned to me.
Have you spoken with Cullis earlier today, sir?
What of it? I asked.
The detective intervened. He would like to know if you
ordered the disposal of a horse. It appears there is a use for
its skin, at least.
The reporter looked at him like a bumpkin at a magic
show. Maccabi looked equally impressed.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

For pitys sake, were outside a d____ stable, Cullis reeks

of horse, hes wearing an ostlers apron and... I am right, am
I not, Constable, that the poor fellow in the pond has been a
corpse too long to produce such gouts of blood! Thats all
there is to this wonderful detection; any fool might pretend
to be a practitioner.
I turned to the policeman expecting a deserved look of
respect. He gave me something that approximated a smile.
My father owned the knackers in Morpeth when I was
young. It must have been a greater feat of detection for you.
Although, in fact, you mean deduction, Mr Moffat.
He appeared to stop and consider that he had not wanted
to say so much, and then went on in his more customary terse
style. Strange thing. Corpses, blood. Not a military man,
are you.
It was not a question. Therefore I did not answer.

165
 Chapter Twenty

Maccabi was still looking uncomfortable. I would have given

anything for a moment alone with him to ascertain why. In
the meantime, Constable Turner turned his gaze to the
brother of the deceased. He spoke in a more intelligible ver-
sion of the local patois; both Cullis and I were able to
understand it.
Mr Cullis. Older brother, yes. On the estate since March,
is it?
Although Culliss answer was as impenetrable as expected,
the look of bewilderment was unmistakable. Turner leaned his
face toward the labourer and glowered, the man shrank back.
I gave you something to remember me by in Felton, man.
Cullis cowered and shrank further away from the embod-
iment of authority.
Been at the old business, Cullis?
There was no need for words; the shake of the head was
violent. Nonetheless, the detective seemed to discern some
mendacity, for he delivered a sweeping, open-handed blow to

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 EWAN LAWRIE

the fellows head. Perhaps there was more to the ostlers

dental deficiencies than a poor diet.
Maccabi, his face a mixture of nervousness and relief, let
out, So! A suspect!
Evidently the man had never encountered a representative
of the law, much less been on the wrong side of it. Turner said
nothing. Allans pen raced across the page, and he gave a
curse as his ink ran out. His pen was some newfangled
contraption, which he filled from a bottle of ink carried in
his pocket.
The detective uttered one word, eyebrows raised, to Mac-
cabi: Suspect?
Maccabis reply was immediate, but less effective for the
stuttering: I mean m-m-merely that the Cullises are known
to you, sir, a-a-and could reasonably be assumed to be crim-
inal characters, and th-th-thus under suspicion. I thought a
falling out...
His voice faded like the last of an echo.
Did you? Was the illuminating response.
Most unfortunately his discomfort was assuaged by the
arrival of the other players in the pantomime. The professor
with his scuttling gait, behind the confidently striding Miss
Pardoner and the gliding Mrs Gonderthwaite. The policeman
offered a polite click of the heels by way of welcome. Then
he turned to me. The body may be removed, Mr Moffat. But
only to the care of the coroner at Alnwick. The drayman and
his cart are yet here for the purpose.
I was about to instruct Cullis to take care of his brothers

167
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

remains, but thought better of it, bidding Maccabi to see to

it and thereby ensuring his being accompanied by the detec-
tive and, most likely, the d____ reporter to the pond. Any
enquiry as to whence his guilty manner came could wait until
another time.
Cullis was dismissed by the professor to clean himself up
and place the horses hide in the usual place and Mrs
Gonderthwaite apparently found further tasks for herself in
the ill-provisioned kitchen. I looked to my ward and
enquired,Did you know of the professors talents as a taxi-
dermist, Miss Pardoner?
The imp danced a little jig of frustration and ran a hand
over his scalp, while scowling, as if he had been hoping to
deny his pastime. Miss Pardoner, in her turn, denied him
the opportunity.
Indeed I did and do, Mr Moffat. It is a fascinating art and
the professor has been good enough to inculcate in me an
appreciation of some of its mysteries.
I thought of the poor fellow in the gatehouse, but thought
better of mentioning it just then. Perhaps I should have done
so.
Do you leave the skinning of the beasts to such as Cullis?
Oh no, sir. I am more than competent with a sharp enough
knife.
It was not a comforting thought, but it was a fascinating
one.
How fortunate that the shepherd was killed with a rock,
in that case, I said.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

The professor cleared his throat and wondered, Ah... the

policeman has been open with his speculations then?
I supposed he had not, but saw no reason to apprise either
of them of that fact.
Oh yes, I said. I should hardly be surprised if he suspects
Maccabi, the fellow should have embroidered an M on his
breast pocket. He is surely guilty of something, of that I have
no doubt.
A little scarlet appeared on Miss Pardoners cheek but she
made no further reaction and I had to be satisfied with that.
The professor, however, stiffened his spine and spoke with
some gravity.
Mr Moffat, I have ever found Jedediah Maccabi to be the
most honest, upright and diligent servant of the estate, I
would doubt him capable of the least crime, save that of a
surfeit of zeal in carrying out his duties.
I could not resist a sneer in the little mans direction.
It is to be hoped, then, that his betters have not called
upon him to perform any unsavoury duties, wouldnt you
agree?
I was pleased to note that this riposte deflated the man
somewhat.
I excused myself to both and set off to the front of the
house, convinced of an opportunity to see Jedediah carted to
arrest and ignominy in the company of a corpse. It was not
to be. Constable Turner stood in the rear of the cart next to
a shroud-covered form that I presumed to be my late
employee. Maccabi stood on the threshold lamentably bare

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

of shackles, chains or any restraint at all. The reporter was in

animated discussion with Maccabi, who gave an urgent
Moffat at my approach. As I drew near, he turned to the
journalist and informed him that he was not in a position to
offer him board and lodging. Allan was implying that not to
cooperate with him could prejudice any newspaper report he
might concoct. Such threats must have had little effect on
Maccabi, for he remained obdurate. For certain sure, I was
unfazed by them and merely extended the houses hospitality
in the certainty that the reporters stay would at the very
least prove diverting. At that moment the policeman called
from the cart, saying that he intended to return and resolve
the matter if not before the day was out, then soon after.
He gave me a long look before laying on the whip to little
effect and the cart rolled away.
The repeater watch showed one; it was a pleasant after-
noon. I bade Maccabi see to the provision of a luncheon for
myself and the reporter on the terrace outside the library.
Maccabi seemed about to make some unwise remark, but
closed his mouth and went about arranging the miracle of
food production from Mrs Gonderthwaites domain. I turned
to the reporter. Well, Mr Allan, you are a strange fish to wash
up on these shores, I think.
Despite my bantering tone, the mans eyes narrowed to a
sharp glare and his voice emerged sharper still.
What do you mean by that, Moffat?
He gave a consumptive little cough and spat gelidly to
the side.

170
 EWAN LAWRIE

I simply meant that you are no Northumbrian.

I raised both eyebrows to convince him of my innocence
of any guileful motive.
No, no. I am not, at that. I I have been sometime abroad.
My family are... Reynolds from Gainsborough... Lincoln-
shire. Edgar Allan is a professional name.
His accent bespoke the Americas, although he was trying,
somewhat unsuccessfully, to disguise it. There seemed little of
truth in anything he had said perhaps that was to be
expected of a newspaperman.
We reached the terrace, covered with furniture of iron after
the style of the Spanish rejeria or the iron-working fashions
imported for St Pauls or Hampton Court. I had little time for
chairs and tables of this kind: the artful whorls and curlicues
in the metal in no way made up for their impracticality and
discomfort. I would have preferred banquettes of honest
wood. Still, it was indeed a pleasant day and I motioned the
reporter to a less fussy arrangement of four chairs and a table
of rectangular, rather than the more common circular, shape.
We sat, Allan almost recovered from my remark. He did
seem to be a man with a past not quite behind him; a past he
would most likely have looked for over his shoulder were he
not hidden half a world away from it. I sat in a chair that
offered a view of the lake.
The reporter began patting the pockets of his coat, then
withdrew a clay pipe. A further search produced a box of
blackened metal about the size of a folded handkerchief.
Allan opened it and withdrew a white-headed lucifer. He bent

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

to the flagstones and ignited the match so as to avoid any harm

to myself from stray sparks. I had never been a true smoker
and I never will be such until the unlikely day that someone
invents an affordable match that can be used in safety.
Arabella Coble had enjoyed tobacco, although she never
smoked in public. I did enjoy watching the pleasure she drew
from the pipe quite as materially as she drew the smoke from
it. The matches had been the end of the child, and Arabellas
decline began shortly afterward. She did not smoke again, but
kept a similarly blackened box at her bedside in memory of
her daughter. I buried it with her.
The reporter let out a contented sigh and seemed for the
first time relaxed in my company. His legs were stretched out
before him, crossed at the ankle, and both he and his clothes
cut a slightly less ridiculous figure in that pose.
A man with a smoke is ever in want of a drink, I find, Mr
Allan, I said.
I stood and entered the library via the French windows,
and returned with an Armagnac, which someone had hidden
behind a row of false spines whose books contents, had they
existed, would have made interesting reading. The books
were of homologous design, as though for a private edition
of some collection. All but one spine bore the legend: Col-
lected Writings on Alcoholic Beverages and an appropriate
volume number. On noting that the spines themselves were as
new, the experimental hooking of a finger on the only title of
exception revealed the Armagnacs hiding place. It would
have been an exceptionally captivating tome, purporting to

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 EWAN LAWRIE

be Les Quarante Vertues dArmagnac by one Cardinal

Vital Dufour.
The reporter started from a slumberous ease as I placed the
glass on the iron table. He looked uncertain as to where he
found himself and looked blankly as I wished him, Good
health, Mr Allan.
He blinked severally before replying, Quite, and your
own, Mr Moffat, though I think you more in need of the toast
than I.
The man looked as pale as the worst consumptive and I
laughed, thinking his humour both droll and macabre. Allan
did not even smile, just drained his glass at a draught and
replaced it upon the table.
I offered to recharge his glass but he declined, staring pen-
sively over his eye-glasses. Thinking to pass the time in
conversation, I remarked on his unusual attire.
Manners do not maketh man, Moffat, but clothes, he
said.
He seemed unstruck by the question of what manner of
man his own made him, while I replied, I believe you may be
correct, Mr Allan. A man is known for what he is by his dress;
from the beggar in his rags to the emperor in his purple and
all other stations in between, we are known by our buttoned
and sewn signifiers.
He considered for a moment. But I do believe we might
consider more the physiognomy as the clue to character. I have
made study of lower characters in Paris and... elsewhere. A

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

noble forehead is rarely seen upon a villain, in my experience.

Look to yourself.
It would have made a cat laugh, the nonsense the fellow
spouted. Nevertheless, I did not expect him to react so to
what I said in reply to it. So, you would know a villain, if
you found his corpse in another mans finest clothes?
The mans customary pallor was empurpled by some fit of
apoplexy or rage and amid the choking he spluttered: Damn
him, Damn that Griswold. I watched the fellow recover him-
self with some interest, whilst considering what a truly
peculiar fellow this Edgar Allan was.

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 Chapter Twenty-one

At last, Maccabi and Miss Pardoner arrived, bearing the

necessities for luncheon en plein air, which were shortly
revealed as a cold collation of meats and cheeses. I presumed,
therefore, that Maccabi would not be joining us. Miss Par-
doner needed no invitation and sat predictably close to the
reporter, although I had stood to withdraw the chair next
to mine.
Good day, once again, Miss Pardoner, I said, evenly.
The reporter, clearly not having recovered himself suffi-
ciently, merely grunted and airily waved a hand. To be sure,
he still looked a little puce.
Good day, gentlemen. I trust these poor comestibles will
satisfy? They are little enough but the best that could be
assembled.
In fact, they were the makings of a good, if simple, repast.
The cheese was of a pan-European variety: the fashionably
novel Roquefort, Parmesan, Emmental, Camembert and
Cheddar. With the exception of this last, it was scarce credible
that such cheeses could be found in Northumberland much

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

less in the kitchen of Gibbous House. They seemed bare of

any mould, save of course the blue in the Roquefort. Many a
London table would have been pleased to offer such.
The cold meats were more prosaic by comparison, for the
most part being the residue of some earlier roast. The ham
hock had a suspicious silvering in the pink; that aside, the
rolled beef appeared moist and the lamb looked as though
some degree of shepherding had after all been done by the
late Cullis. There was more of the blood sausage from break-
fast, sliced cold, blackly crumbling around pellucid, glistening
fat. There were freshly baked loaves, so hot as to steam
despite the fine weather.
Miss Pardoner made as if to serve. I waved her to her seat
once more.
Taking a knife to one of the loaves, I sliced thickly and
placed two generous portions on a plate. Spurning the use of
a cheese parer, since the cheese was indeed in a remarkable
state of freshness, I took up the handles of the cheese wire
and noted how much more effective it would be than a yellow
scarf. Miss Pardoner laid a hand on mine. Just Roquefort, sir.
I find cheese so insipid. I prefer meat.
Her tone was innocent of any guile, although, perhaps
inevitably, the corner of her mouth gave an infinitesimal
twitch. I cut a generous portion of the blued cheese and
placed it with a spatulate knife on her plate. The cheese itself
glistened and I was reminded of beads of perspiration on a
lovers skin. Miss Pardoner declined the ham, asked for her
beef to be from the rarer end of the joint and demanded a

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 EWAN LAWRIE

further two slices of the blood sausage than the two I had
already apportioned.
Mr Allan appeared yet to be in a funk and made no
response when I gestured at him with cutlery and plate. Mine
own selections reflected Miss Pardoners tastes and I found
that a pleasing thought.
Since both my ward and I had handled our cutlery with
some efficiency I was quite despairing of a libation when
Maccabi finally arrived with a decanter of something a little
too pale to be claret. Still, I was grateful when he poured the
three of us a glass, although I was sore tempted to upbraid
him as he spilled a drop on the admittedly greying white of
my shirt cuff. No matter, his own clothes would be on my
back soon enough.
Edgar Allan drained his glass before I had taken a sip, and
held it forth for replenishment. Maccabi complied and
departed with an indecipherable look at Miss Ellen Pardoner.
Miss Pardoner addressed the reporter. Are you quite your-
self, sir?
His visage betrayed that something troubled him more
than a little; his reply had the tone of a wistful child who has
lost some shiny gewgaw. I am quite sure I no longer know.
For myself, I was sure I no longer cared.
Maccabi had had the courtesy to leave the decanter on
the wrought-iron table; I removed the stopper and charged the
reporters glass to no discernible reaction. Miss Pardoner de-
clined the offer and I filled mine own glass with a little more
care than Maccabi had. Miss Pardoner gave a polite, and

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

unconvincing, cough as though asking my permission to speak.

Her bold stare gave the lie to this semblance of propriety.
Mr Moffat. I wondered if you might care to discuss Miss
Arabella Coble with me. I quite feel I know her. The late Mr
Coble spoke of her fondly and often. You will forgive a young
womans curiosity, I am sure.
I would have, that was indeed true. However, a young
womans dissembling I would have and did find less for-
givable. It seemed doubtful to me that my late wife had been
held in any great affection by a man who had instructed his
lawyers: be in no doubt, I hold yourselves responsible should
my great-niece be so misguided as to believe I hold her in any
kind of affection.
Miss Pardoners request was merely a gambit of some
kind. For that reason I chose to grant it, hoping to descry in
what game she had made this opening.
She was a remarkable woman, I began. I regaled her with
as affecting an account of the family life of persons of quality
as had ever been invented for publication or otherwise.
Even the most blurred version of the truth should have, I
supposed, shocked the woman to the core. There would come
a time to tell Miss Ellen Pardoner about Arabella Coble: that
time had not yet come. Though the reporter appeared insen-
sible, it were too great a risk.
Therefore I spoke at length, with as little regard for verac-
ity as Mr Charles Dickens himself and perhaps with as
much sentiment regarding the paragon I claimed Arabella
to have been. I should confess I limned myself in colours less

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 EWAN LAWRIE

dark than they should have been, but not too much so. A
certain verisimilitude was necessary.
So Miss Pardoner did not hear of forgery, deception or
hurried departures by the light of moons, gibbous and other-
wise. Nor did she hear of occasional forays into the life of the
street on both our parts, although admittedly Arabella pro-
vided service more often than I, who was forced to remain
contented with pecuniary matters and the provisioning of
restful ease for tormented men.
Nor did I mention the swindles, the glorious gulling of a
minor earl whose climax earned a years living and the
dying of her daughter left alone that night with the lucifer
box. The ending I gave the fantasy was equally unreal,
recounting how Arabella had died bravely in my arms after
suffering much.
This last was true in so far as it went. My late wife had
died raving and ravaged by syphilis with a curse for Alasdair
Moffat on her lips.
Miss Pardoners reaction was disconcerting at first. Mr
Moffat, you cannot surely imagine that I have not read it?
The woman arched an eyebrow.
I raised both of my own before charging myself with being
doubly dull. In the first and less serious indictment: for not
grasping that someone had left Miss Arabella Cobles nave
scribblings for me to find and in the second; for not taking
pains to read it.
My wards statement meant that there was something in
the diary revealing of Arabella. How revealing remained to

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be seen; but since Alasdair Moffat could not have figured in

its pages, something ripe must have lain in them to belie the
fairy tale I myself had just spun about Miss Arabella Coble.
Ah, I see... Perhaps a grieving husband should be allowed
a little gilding of mournings lily? I ventured.
Miss Pardoners reply fell somewhere between the bray of
an amused donkey and the snort of a particularly disdainful
thoroughbred. Any subsequent badinage was prevented by
the querulous voice of the reporter, who enquired, Who...
ahem... is Miss Arabella Coble?
Blinking like a bat before a raised candle, he looked from
Miss Pardoner to myself and back again. Not for the first
time, my own reactions were anticipated by the unladylike
sardonicism of Miss Pardoner.
No knowledge of Cobles, Mr Allan? Really, I would have
thought a newspaperman employed by Northumbrias finest
sheet would have a vast supply of information on such influ-
ential personages.
Mr Allans crest had quite fallen, and I suspected that he
knew himself that the Alnwick Mercurys most utilitarian
moments came when wrapped around the fresh produce of
the towns market on Saturdays. Nevertheless, one would
have thought that a reporter would have known something
of the Cobles, therefore I asked him, How long have you
been reporting for the Mercury, Mr Allan?
He made an unattractive and petulant-looking moue and
said, Eight days.
This time I joined my ward in the unattractive snickering.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

She recovered herself somewhat quicker than I. There was

a glint of mischief or even devilment in her eye as she said,
Miss Arabella Coble was a renegade, a strumpet, a wilful
woman and a faithless wife. For all that I know she may have
been a thief and a murderess. She paused and moistened her
lips as though suddenly dry-mouthed. I wish that I had met
her before she died.
The last of Allans pen-scratching died away, whereupon
the three of us sat in silence, and only one of us was quite
comfortable in it.

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 Chapter Twenty-two

The warm spring sun was making me feel most drowsy. The
reporter, surprisingly, seemed able to bear the vacuum with-
out filling it with questions; Miss Pardoner, being quite the
most self-possessed woman I had ever had the fortune to
meet, was contenting herself with a facade as enigmatic as
that of any sphynx. I had learned, where safe, to take the
balm of lethe where I could. Therefore, I cannot say if what
I remembered next was truly a dream or a simple reverie:
suffice to say it was faithful to memory although who can
say how faithful memory is to truth?
Arabella and I had had our secrets; of course we had. She
knew me only as Moffat, after all. I in my turn had but
recently learned of the existence of a previous husband, viz
one Cadwallader. My feelings for her had not conformed to
any ideal of romantic love such as might be found in Lom-
bardy troubadours parchments. Though she did stir my
passions, others had done so more violently. It were rather as
though in Miss Arabella Coble a bond beyond consanguinity

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 EWAN LAWRIE

or sense could be found with my own obsessions. I knew it,

and I knew it at once on the dockside the day that we met.
My peculiar education and subsequent reading had intro-
duced me to the idea of the human soul. It was my belief that,
if such a thing existed and if it were the seat of compassion
and other noble virtues, then I was deficient this essential part
of humanity. The sense of a similar void in Miss Coble bound
me to her more strongly than ever any vow of love could have
done. She was a woman as hollow as I.
Truly, she showed no affection for the mite who was hold-
ing her hand on the day that we met. Do not think that she
was cruel. The child was ever clothed and fed as well as we;
but she received not a caress or buss that other mothers might
casually have bestowed with every hour. I did not feel undue
sympathy; the girl was nothing to me, of course.
Nevertheless, I was not prepared for the grieving after the
episode with the lucifer matches.
We had been doing tolerable well with some business
involving breach of promise, mostly among gentlemen of
trade, whilst we awaited one large fish that would set us up
for some time.
One evening, during late summer 184_, Arabella and I
were attending a programme of varieties in the song and
supper club known as the Mogul Saloon, in Drury Lane. At
the table adjoining was an oldish fellow of plain looks in the
company of two rather younger male companions. The
fellow was quite drunk, florid of cheek and rolling of eye.
The younger fellows clothes were frayed and shining in

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

parts, although the cut was good. I saw the one slap his
patron on the back as his confederate began the dip for the
older chaps valuables.
I dashed to the table and seized the offenders hand. It was
obvious to all what the two men had been about.
Leave, I urged him. Unless you wish me to call the
Peelers?
The two younger men left. The older man offered his hand.
C-c-apital, he hiccoughed. Johnny Brougham, fifth Earl
of B__________, call me Johnny, cahnt thank yew enough.
I pumped his hand, thinking that he was correct in that
at least.
Ah... yew and yer lady could join me, praps, hmm? he
asked, with all the diffidence of his class.
Allow me to introduce my sister Arabella, I said. Captain
Crawford, at your service.
Brougham held out a chair for Arabella. There were other
women in the Mogul; at that time there were several ladies in
society with a taste for the lower entertainments, but there
were few in evidence that night. A certain kind of woman
would ape the fashions of these adventuresses with far less
panache than Arabella was able to manage. Still, Arabellas
origins were much closer to these members of the quality
than those of the bawds in the company of the moneyed and
the meretricious.
We took our seats to the sounds of a singularly bronchitic
and less than tuneful squawk. The assembled audience had
begun to laugh the moment a man appeared on the raised

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 EWAN LAWRIE

dais in front of them. Brougham gave a loud whisper in

Arabellas direction. Sloman, usually on at Evans, jolly good.
It was a matter of taste, I assumed. Every song seemed to
include a sketch of one of the regular habitus of the Mogul.
One fellow with a writerly look and a notebook clutched
to his chest stood up to bow at the mention of Makepeace.
I reflected that one ought never to underestimate the vanity
of writers. An hour later our new-found boon companion
beamed beatifically during a song lauding the exploits of one
Supper Club Johnny, although I imagined a few of those
watching merited the epithet.
Arabella struck exactly the right note in her performance
that evening. For a performance it was; I myself, who knew
her to be eight and twenty, would have believed her no more
than of majority age. Again, she hid the boldness and self-as-
surance that I found so attractive behind a flirtatious and, yes,
inane chatter. Brougham cut a figure that was testament to
the louche and dissolute existence enjoyed by more than one
or two of his peers. His swelling abdomen told of port and
too many suppers in places like the Mogul.
Naturally, despite the affectation of diffidence, he pos-
sessed the supreme self-confidence of all his class: a certain
knowledge of the strata of society and his own elevated sta-
tion within them. Above all, he knew himself to be irresistible
by dint of his status and wealth.
Equally naturally, Arabella resisted him with great skill
and feigned reluctance.
She resisted Brougham that night, in Evans the next night,

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

at Regents Park Zoological Gardens the following week and

on the Serpentine after that. On every occasion I played the
chaperone, the doting and indulgent elder brother. As with
any man accustomed to having every wish gratified, the
denial of one impelled him to strive to attain it. Arabella
refused all gifts, as a player at Speculation will spurn a trick
in the hope of greater gains. The proffered gifts became more
outrageous; we were both sorely tempted by a sapphire and
ruby brooch of Indian origin in the shape of a butterfly. How-
ever, we remained strong.
The game continued for several months and I despaired of
Brougham ever closing his wet mouth on the hook.
Finally, Brougham came to call at a house on Cadogan
Square that the fool believed to be ours. A fortunate en-
counter with the rich and effete son of a cotton merchant in
an alley in Limehouse had offered an opportunity for ex-
tortion and blackmail, but I had saved the coin for a later
day and extracted the use of his London address after his
departure for the Grand Tour. A mans reputation in society
is a precious thing and, as such, a marketable commodity.
A sham sufficient unto the dupe was maintained by myself,
Arabella, and two confederates I had had occasion to use in
the past. The office of butler in the service of Arabella and
Captain Arthur Crawford was filled by one Crabbit. This
gentleman I had encountered one evening in the foyer of a
house in East Cheap. He was leaving, having been disap-
pointed in the matter of employment: the man had lost his

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 EWAN LAWRIE

position due to a leave of absence in the Newgate Gaol occa-

sioned by a discounted bill.
He would hear not a word against his former employer a
noted Whig as he had settled the debt and turned him onto
the streets at one remove. He stood a head taller than I, and
retained an air of servility whilst remaining imposing. His age
was indiscernible: he might have been thirty or sixty. A butler
he looked, a butler he had been, and for a while he played
the butler again.
One of the younger molls at that same house I engaged
to play the maid. With the paint removed, her East End
vowels lent her an air of authenticity, especially when she
affected the accents of her betters, as many real servants were
wont to do. The two of them were an expense indeed, since
they had been in my employ since the first week of our mach-
inations, but it was uncertain how long it would take
Brougham to bite.
Broughams call at the Cadogan Square residence was
conducted according to etiquette: that is to say, he arrived in
a hansom, which he engaged to wait while he presented his
card. As was the custom, Crabbit removed this item of statio-
nery atop a fine salver for delivery to the supposed master of
the house. Brougham awaited any reply in the vestibule.
Crabbit loured down at Brougham. The captain has inti-
mated that you may call at four this afternoon. At which time
he will be pleased to take tea with you.
Through a second-floor sash, I observed the simpering fool
withdraw to the carriage to wait. I wished him the joy of six

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

hours at the roadside, with as like as not only a content-

edly snoring driver for company.
Crabbit was despatched to a bakers for fancies and the
like; Arabella instructed the jade in the preparation and pre-
sentation of tea. I stood outside the kitchen, enjoying the
periodic sound of a hand on flesh and the young womans
vituperative reaction to her schooling in the matter. At length,
I repaired to the library, pleased that Crabbit and I had
thought to remove some of the very best vintages from the
cellar to the book-lined room.
It had been no surprise that not a page of a single book
had been cut and I had been still less surprised, on using my
own knife, to find that whole runs of shelving contained row
upon row of blank-paged books. A man so easily blackmailed
clearly had received no sort of education: therefore, he owed
me a modicum of thanks for the lesson I had taught him.
I settled in a peacock chair to wait for Broughams arrival.
Came he at last, preceded by Crabbits second delivery of
his calling card. I felt a simple satisfaction at this defrauding
of the social niceties. The earl demeaning himself so far as to
call on a mere captain how much more debased would he
have felt to know his obsequies were squandered on an
adventuring imposter?
On the cards arrival, I dismissed Crabbit with a wave of
my fingers. Johnny Broughams card bore only the appella-
tion appropriate to his earldom. Plainly, as with many of the
blood, the surname bare was sufficient. Said card was impres-
sively stiff, as rigid as the rules of its presentation. It was

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 EWAN LAWRIE

devoid of the dclass scalloping of edge that the cards of

many of those exalted by success in trade affected. The print
of an inky thumb may well have been the affectation of
Brougham himself, or indeed a mark of Crabbits descent
from his former position.
Brougham was as nervous as a curate among bishops. Do
not think he hopped from foot to foot, rubbing one hand on
the other in serpentine style; no indeed, he was as stiff and
formal as ever I had seen him. He stuttered painfully over the
C of captain and excruciatingly over that of Crawford all
the while executing such a bow as would disgrace the least
ingenious of automata. Still more painful were his overtures:
the politenesses required before broaching the business of
the matter at hand. The man enquired of the current strength
of my regiment, my phantastical prospects of promotion
within it and of my imagined exploits under its standard. The
trick, of course, was to make as little of all three whilst offer-
ing not a whit of detail, much in the manner of a Cardigan
or a Raglan.
Much as I enjoyed the ridiculous nature of this preamble,
it was some relief when I realised he was approaching the
purpose of his visit, admittedly in the manner of a cautious
dog toward an intemperate feline. However, he had scarce
mentioned my sisters name, when I held up a hand and inter-
rupted. Modern though it might be, Brougham, my sister and
I are not so disparate in age that I would presume to dispose
of her prospects in her absence.
I rang the bell and instructed Crabbit to fetch Arabella.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

And also, if I might so presume, I went on, I am in the

hope that you would not consider it an imposition if our
friend and advisor were also present?
He spluttered his assent.
Arabella returned, on the arm of a man whom I respected
as an exemplar of his type. Whitscrape, Malachi Whitscrape,
attorney-at-law, as full of scruple as need be: he trod a line as
thin as his own corporeal form. As yellow as the parchments
he signed with conviction and impunity, only the burning
coal of his eyes betrayed his true passion: the acquisition of
guineas by whatever means. A useful man indeed.
Arabella took the peacock chair that I had vacated on
standing for her entry, as politeness dictated. I stood, legs
crossed at the ankle, and leaned one arm outstretched along
the mantelpiece a poor imitation of Mr Adams. There was
little warmth emanating from below it: a meagre log fed a
feeble flicker in the grate. Brougham, having executed his stiff
approximation of a bow in the direction of Arabella, stood,
hands behind his back, clearing his throat as if some blockage
would hold him silent for ever. Whitscrape, being an insub-
stantial, pallid fellow, faded until he no more caught the eye
than an artfully arranged coat stand.
Brougham began diffidently, with much circumlocution
and further adjustment of buttons, cuffs, waistcoat and the
irritating bolus in his gullet. I silently wished he would out
with his proposal; Arabella sat demure with eyes downcast.
And so... Captain, not to delay further and I hope I am

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 EWAN LAWRIE

not indelicate in my haste I have the honour this propitious

day to ask for the hand of your sister Arabella in marriage.
He let out a huffing sigh as if these very words had been
the obstruction that had caught so in his throat. And perhaps
they were: we had presented Arabella as a woman of few
prospects, being only my sister-in-law and as such having no
claim on the house in Cadogan Square and little more than
fifty pounds per annum, thanks to a legacy on the distaff side.
In short, his prospective bride had been bound for a life of
genteel poverty. It said little for his own desirability amongst
his peers that he was yet a bachelor, or that he would be
tempted so far beyond his circle, no matter what the prize.
A glint in Whitscrapes eye signalled his continued pres-
ence in the world of men and I took it as a sign that Brougham
had said enough.
You have chosen well, Brougham. My sister will make you
a fine consort. We accept your proposal. It does us both great
honour, Im sure.
He gave another of his stiff courtesies to Arabella, this time
accompanied by a most repulsive leer. It was time to spring
the gin and see how much the ermine would forfeit to escape
its jaws. And we are both, I am sure, cognizant of your
extreme generosity in the matter of the responsibility.
He nodded, still mooning at his prize.
For indeed, I went on, a man might marry many women,
even at an age as advanced as my sisters own...
Broughams head swivelled, perhaps he felt the trap
around his legs and could not turn to face me.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

But only a rare individual would take a widow...

The eyes bulged; mayhap he was wriggling his leg and the
teeth of the gin were paining him somewhat.
And she the mother of a poor fatherless child.
Brougham let out a bellow of pained rage and threw a look
of venom toward a suddenly more visible Whitscrape, who
gave him a very satisfied nod. Brougham did not address his
enquiry to me, but to the lawyer: How much, you viper?
Whitscrape named a sum, not inconsiderable. It seemed
that Broughams reputation, though of some pecuniary
value to himself, would not have withstood a suit for breach
of promise.
Later that evening, in possession of the earls bill, we
wound the enterprise up in style. Several colleagues of the
maids more normal place of employment were enjoined to
attend an evening of libation and dancing. Crabbit disported
himself shamelessly with several of these. Arabella invited
some blades of her acquaintance, who, naturally, brought
along acolytes and parasites in equal measure. Only
Whitscrape and I disdained to invite friends to celebrate the
success of our venture: the lawyer, I presumed, because he
saw no profit in it, and I because there were none to whom I
cared to extend an invitation.
The most satisfactory outcome of the evening was the
despoliation of the house in Cadogan Square; it filled my soul
to know that I had extended a little more in the way of edu-
cation to the owner of so many blank-paged books.
Less satisfactory was the scene in East Cheap. The house

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 EWAN LAWRIE

in which, prior to the gulling of the earl, Arabella, the child

and I had taken the attic rooms was a blackened gap between
the grey teeth of the rest of the terrace. It was smoking still.
Several bare-chested men, quite blackened by the smoke, stood
exhausted in front of the ashes. There had been no hope, of
course, of any timely extinguishing of the inferno. These men
were neighbours and relatives of those who had undoubtedly
perished. The London Fire Engine Establishment did not
venture into East Cheap: for who there would or could
pay premiums on the least expensive of policies available
from such as the East London Fire Insurance and Mutual?
Arabella was already pale, fatigued by the attentions of
several of her invited blades and not a few of their coterie.
She stood motionless before the pyre, at once beautiful and
terrifying. Caring not for her clothes or shoes, she ran into
the pile of ashes and fell to her hands and knees, scrabbling
in the ash. By outrageous fortune her hand clasped around a
blackened metal object just as two of the brawny fellows
seized her and bore her away.
The burns were not serious, merely a reddening of the
hands, mostly caused by the heat from her own lucifer box,
an item perhaps not suited to the role of demure young lady
and, consequent on this, left this past few weeks in the attic
rooms with her child and an equally dead older woman
whose name I do not remember.
I held Arabella close in the overwhelming stench of burn-
ing and smoke.

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 Chapter Twenty-three

Indeed, I must surely have been dreaming on the terrace of

Gibbous House, since I awoke with a start; a woman-
ish scream evidently produced by Edgar Allan pierced
the silence. I supposed the scream might either have been
as a result of the flames coming from his frock coat or of
Miss Pardoners stalwart efforts at extinguishing them by
beating at them with a no-longer white cloth, late of the
tables surface.
Allan, having fought off the ministrations of Miss Par-
doner to his smouldering apparel, fixed me with a rheumy
eye. If your dreams did not disturb your slumbers, Moffat,
they did disturb mine. Who is this Brougham you have been
muttering about, sir?
I chose to ignore him. However, my ward declared herself
to be equally interested in the identity of the fellow who
stalked my dreams. I confess I was somewhat nonplussed,
and before I had collected my thoughts she added, A noble
fellow, Ill warrant.
The man no more exists than Springheeled Jack. Enough

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 EWAN LAWRIE

of this nonsense, miss, Ill join you for dinner. A man must
have some time to call his own.
Before I had made good my departure, Miss Pardoner
added, You would find few to agree with you in London, Mr
Moffat, from Peckham to Cadogan Square.
Her rejoinder almost gave me pause, but I showed her my
back nonetheless.
My first intention was to reflect in my monkish apartments
on a further course of action towards achieving some pecu-
niary advancement from my current position. But by the time
I operated the newfangled brass lever on the door to my cell,
my proposed activity was transformed into a determination
to read Arabella Cobles diary with diligence.
It was with some alarm that I noted that the journal lay
not on the threadbare counterpane where I had left it. This
alarm subsided when I caught sight of the book, spine up,
covers splayed, on the boards beneath the iron bedstead. It
might well have fallen from the bed whereon I had left it, but
I had been sure that Allans womanly squeal had awakened
me and not some seismological phenomenon. For the jour-
nal was heavy, the leather binding being of quality and the
paper within it, too. The hasp that had surrendered all too
easily to my spear-blade penknife was of metal, gilt or possi-
bly even gold, having been marked easily by the blade. A
substantial book, with many pages.
It was astounding to see that the book, which I had
assumed would contain little after Arabellas anticipatory
speculations concerning a certain Cadwalladers arrival

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

which revelations occurred only a little way into the tome

was inscribed to the very last page. Beyond, indeed, for the
endpapers and the inside of the cover were bedecked with an
inky trail resembling a spidery imitation of my late wifes
writing as I had known it. The very last words were written
just so:
Ware the homunculus, Alasdair, and a line meandered
downward from the extravagant serif at the foot of the letter
r to the bottom edge of the book. Thick black strokes in
another hand had written

Which strokes taken together meant Thanatos, the Greek god

of Death.
Alongside were other Greek letters, which looked familiar.
I removed from my pocket the volume purloined from the
library, on the flyleaf of which a similar hand had written

And yet I knew I had seen these symbols before, long before
I had met Arabella, in the library of the man who had been
Moffat. Alongside these letters was a drawing depicting the
symbol that hung outside the Coble Inn at Seahouses.
I slumped, aghast, onto the cot. It was no great revelation
that my late wife had been in the habit of keeping a secret
journal during the course of our marriage: our life together

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 EWAN LAWRIE

had necessitated much independence of thought and deed.

No; what I could not understand, or rather conceive of, was
how any such journal, having been nowhere in evidence at
the time of Arabellas death, had appeared in timely fashion
at Gibbous House. Nor could I fathom that she had met me
by design and perhaps at anothers behest.
I turned the leaves of the diary rapidly through Arabellas
callow musings, more rapidly still through her swoonings
over her tutor Cadwallader, and the veiled hints as their illicit
relationship progressed to elopement. I was stopped short by
an entry for January 12th 184_:

I am in receipt of a communication from Septimus. I am

loath to broach its contents with my Husband; viz. that
we are summoned to Northumberland; that there I shall
learn something to my advantage. That pronoun being
underlined with a savagery that precludes any mention of
the missal to Cadwallader.

It seemed an affectation to refer to her husband by his famil-

ial appellation. Perhaps it was a measure of the distance
between them, evidence of the fading of romantic love in the
presence of more ardent needs of a pecuniary kind. I won-
dered how Arabella had revealed their joint summons
without showing Septimus Cobles hand. Her journal gave no
clue. The following entry read:

Post coach north, from the Golden Cross.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Thereafter came a pause altogether in the journals entries.

One month had passed before she wrote another word, and
there she wrote one only:

Quickened!

The script foreshadowed that of the most recent entries, in

so far as it quavered, perhaps due to some great emotion.
Arabellas next entry was more businesslike and less terse:

I wish that in my dealings with Coble I had bargained

better. However, the man was immovable on the matter
of income and interest, swearing that if I did not take the
capital sum of one thousand pounds, I should receive
nothing at all. In truth, I was glad to leave, and to take
the sum offered. I shudder yet at the prospect of suffering
Cadwalladers fate...
No matter, one thousand pounds I have and not a penny
more. One can but hope that it is sufficient to see the
unborn child some way to majority, at least until I can
acquire some prospects of my own. That or fulfil the task
they have set me of finding their unwitting mark.

I continued to read as quickly as I could, noting with interest

that my brief reconnaissance on the East India Docks had
been no more painstaking than her own. She had inveigled
herself aboard the recently arrived cutter in the knowledge
that I would likely meet her on the gangplank. A smile was

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 EWAN LAWRIE

the consequence of this intelligence, as I reflected that how-

soever devious a man might be, he will always be more than
matched at some or other time and, most likely, by a woman.
The subsequent pages, I passed by in the most cursory
manner. I had been there after all, had I not? Again there was
a lacuna in Arabellas entries after a reference to Broughams
dilatoriness in plighting his troth. Her grief had been pro-
found, mystifyingly enough, for she had shown the child no
great affection prior to her fiery demise.
There was a subtle change in the diary afterwards; at times
the hand was fierce in its assault on the paper, at other times
the script was beautifully formed at these times, however,
there was an undercurrent of some nebulous hysteria, the text
being full of rhetorical and nonsensical questions. On many
pages she railed against punishments as yet unmeted, hinted
again at her fear of meeting with Cadwalladers fate and
vowing that if she did, she hoped it would be while still pos-
sessed of her looks.
As I read I realised, as I had not at the time, that the syph-
ilis had been rampant in her and that despite appearances she
had been quite mad for some time before her descent. I had
oft wondered at the change in our relationship and why
through several years she had ministered to my needs much
as Solomons handmaidens to his.
On removing the hunter watch from my pocket, I reflected
that it still seemed not quite mine own. The engraving show-
ing the unlucky reverends name was no part of this feeling
it was more that the damned thing fit poorly in the fob;

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

when Maccabis sewing jackanapes finally appeared with my

new wardrobe, I hoped sincerely that it would be more
generous in the matter of pockets.
As cursory as my reading had been, the watch showed that
some hours had dissolved in it, for the time was five of the
afternoon. The diary I placed in a simulacrum of its aspect on
my earlier entry to the chamber. It was whim, caprice; noth-
ing more. I doubted that Miss Pardoner if indeed it had
been she would be so bold as to invade my sanctum twice
in one day. Why had she left the book so? She surely could
not think that I would credit so recent a reading of it? In
hindsight, I believed that Miss Pardoner had hinted at some
knowledge of Arabella before that afternoon.
Downstairs, I made again the journey from the atrium to
the library, puzzling once more over the existence of the
hidden room. The internal dimensions of each room gave no
clue to any entrance hidden or otherwise; nor indeed to the
very existence of such a room. Of course, had I been in pos-
session of a masons square or a plumb-bob, I could have
satisfied myself that such were the case. However, the condi-
tion of certain parts of the house precluded the ministrations
in recent times of any tradesman at all, much less that of a
carpenter or mason with their square and lead.
Several things gave me pause in the room containing
the nightmare bestiary of the taxidermists imagination.
In one corner, behind a phantastical beast that possessed a
half-dozen supernumerary cranes legs, a komodo dragons
body and an elephants head, I caught the glint of some light

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 EWAN LAWRIE

on glassware. Behind the chimerical beast were five sealed

jars: they contained the major organs of a human being,
save the skin. I was sure I knew where the missing item might
be found.
Where the light had penetrated the dark and dust-covered
room I knew not. All drapes had been drawn against the
daylight and there was not so much as a candlestub in any
sconce. It occurred to me that there might be some marking
on the wax-sealed lids of the jars, and there was sufficent
light to descry the hieroglyphs, perhaps those of this phara-
onic disembowelling. My fingers traced the letters H and C.
Heathfield Cadwallader.

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 Chapter Twenty-four

Plainly, Arabella had been quite justified in her fear of meet-

ing her first husbands fate: I had no intention of suffering any
such demise. The silent gatekeepers identity was now self-ev-
ident, and I wondered just how long Heathfield Cadwallader
had remained mute and rigid in the gatehouse before I had
stumbled on his preserved relict. Still, the man had achieved
immortality of a sort.
On arrival in the library, I encountered the purported Edgar
Allan engaged in mortal combat with a recalcitrant bottle of
claret. The man appeared to be assaulting it with a compli-
cated arrangement of levers and a metal spiral. Opalescent
beads of sweat adorned his flushed forehead perhaps from
his exertions although I surmised it might have been a while
since his last enlivening refreshment. He acknowledged my
entry with a rolling eye and punctuated his explanation with
much grunting and several tosses of the head to prevent his
forelock obscuring his already limited vision.
The ah four-square oh pay mmm tent wine-stop-
per uh removal tool!

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 EWAN LAWRIE

This last word emerged four-square between a shout of

triumph and the squeal of an inconvenienced pig, as the stop-
per was revealed to be impaled on the metal spiral but,
unfortunately, still firmly inserted in the neck of the bottle.
The remainder had smashed at the reporters feet, one of
which was promptly lacerated through the sole as the man
attempted to recover his balance.
The man was to be admired for his bravery in embracing
the innovatory, but I could not help thinking that this latest
device was no advance on the admirable Reverend Henshalls
much simpler patent.
To summon aid for the still hopping reporter, I pulled a
handle without much hope of it ringing to any effect. It hung
limply between two shelves that contained ancient philosoph-
ical writings interspersed with books adorned with vaguely
familiar glyphs. I removed one at random: the shapes were
similar but not identical to those on the documents that
had magically appeared during my interminable coach jour-
ney from London.
A scrap of paper fell from the book: the lettering was in
the Roman style: As above, so below, it read. I pocketed the
book and the paper, thinking to glean a clue as to the mean-
ing of the glyphs.
Mindful of Allans difficulties with the claret, I seized a
decanter of jerez and poured us both a good draught. I
savoured my own whilst admiring his ability to remaining
upright on one leg while spilling nary a drop.
*

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Somewhat alarmingly, the bells summons was answered by

the diminutive academic. It pained me to no small degree that
the man thought nothing of loitering in the servants domain,
but any such pain was overwhelmed by astonishment at the
fact that he would meet their responsibilities. It should have
pleased me inordinately to order the fellow about, but I was
less enamoured of the idea since, evidently, the dwarf would
willingly perform his duties.
As Mr Dryden said, Bold knaves thrive, so I summarily
despatched the midget to fetch such swaddling and medica-
ments as he saw fit. The journalist evinced a pallor rather
paler than that to which even he was wont, and as I stepped
forward to guide him to a chair he fell in a dead faint, fortu-
itously enough into one of the more comfortable furnishings
in the room. Well upholstered and with a rich, if grubby,
brocade covering, it seemed in better condition than many of
the other pieces. The gilt on one of the elegantly turned legs
was misfortunately tarnishing under the flow of the journal-
ists own red ink.
Jedermann returned in his customary crustacean manner,
scuttling toward Allan with enough bandaging to supply one
of Miss Nightingales hospitals and a variety of vilely
coloured liquids in bottles of various shapes. Allan, whose
faint had been as transitory as any glory he might have
aspired to as a writer, reared up in the chair in fright at the
professor approaching him.
There is nothing about which you must be worrying,
Mr Allan; among my studies there is the small matter of a

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 EWAN LAWRIE

medical degree. I am completely and utterly immersed in the

mysteries of the human organism, thanks to several years
study of cadavers under... Well, no matter, what is that sur-
geons name to a man bleeding profusely, if not to death?
Upon this, the little man advanced on Allan with a demea-
nour that enabled the inflicting of the quite noxious-smelling
liquids, one by one, and an amount of cloth wrapping that
would evince to the innocent observer a heroic episode of the
gout. I addressed the professor with as peremptory a tone as
I could muster: I am surprised that your religious sensibilities
permit such tasks on the Sabbath.
The smallest of grins widened his puckered little mouth.
Mr Moffat, as you know, I am not of the Jewish faith, but
even if I were, what kind of religion would not per-mit suc-
cour to the injured on account of the day of the week?
I was not ignorant of this aspect of Judaism: Arabella had
justified many quite unlikely acts by what one might, or
might not, do on Shabbat. Furthermore, she had explained to
me the role of the Shobbas Goy, who might perform any
prohibited task on the Sabbath on behalf of the frum. On our
few intimate occasions she honoured me with this appella-
tion. One could not but admire such practicality.
The reporter was still trembling after the professors min-
istrations and I suggested that he might hie himself to a spare
chamber that he might recover the better.
The professor kindly offered to see the man to a room; the
reporter appeared to me to be quite horrified at the prospect.

205
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

I was obliged, by an overwhelming curiosity as to the reason

for this, to offer mine own services.
We made slow progress to the vestibule, Allans arm
draped around my shoulder, as his uninjured plantar was
seemingly ill-prepared to bear even half of its owners weight.
I allowed myself a smile as we passed through the taxidermic
grotesques, imagining the pair of us as a human equivalent
of the two-headed equine monster recently despatched by
Cullis Major.
The dining room remained in a state reminiscent of
the aftermath of a Roman feast, platters and dishes contain-
ing remnants of food covering the tables surface. I heard the
scratch and click of rodent claws on the parquet and pon-
dered the liberation of a cat or two from the west wing.

Manoeuvring through the clutter of the vestibule was difficult

and not accomplished without curses or the barking of
Allans shins on sundry furnishings. We mounted the stairs
and Allan, though it cost him some effort, addressed me for
the first time since we had left the library. I have dissembled,
sir. I have made my own investigations: there is little I do not
know or suspect about the Cobles.
Humouring the fellow seemed the best course, therefore
my reply was succinct: Do tell, Mr Allan. Although I confess
I stifled a yawn.
Not here, Moffat.
It was uncertain whether he meant not on the staircase or
at Gibbous House; furthermore, I suspected my yawn had

206
 EWAN LAWRIE

not been quite so well suppressed as I had hoped. In any

event, he forbore to speak further as we passed through the
trompe loeil and I manhandled him into a chamber whose
door, being a heavenly blue, was one of the first few leading
off the corridor. The man was deceptively heavy despite his
ascetic appearance.
It was a room unvisited by myself in my earlier explora-
tions. More generously appointed than others, I felt I detected
the hand of the Bedlamite designer of the house: the room
was large, but not so large as to accommodate the violent
commingling of styles and designs the furniture brought to it.
Messrs Sheraton and Chippendale were both represented, but
not by any complete suite of items. The toilette was the one
and the chair before it the other.
One particularly large cabinet was as vulgar and vibrant a
piece of Chinoiserie as ever I had seen. A Persian kilim served
as barrier to such light as the single small window admitted,
although the bed was equipped with drapes as would have
performed this obstruction more happily. A larger version of
the kilim covered the majority of the cracked and splintered
floorboards. It looked as though it had been rolled out for
display with little care for symmetry or use: in fact a signifi-
cant proportion lay under the bed, and one corner climbed
the large cabinet as if in hope of escape.
Depositing Allan upon the bed with as much ceremony as
he deserved, a packet of papers became dislodged from one
of my pockets and the reporter caught it deftly. My effort at
retrieval achieved nothing as a suddenly sprightly Allan held

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

the packet out of reach. Disdaining to demean myself, I did

not demand its return.
He gave them up willingly after a brief application of my
knife blade, through the swathe of wrappings, to the sole of
his foot.
There was a satisfactory vibrato in the reporters voice as
he interrupted my move to the door.
M-m-moffat?
I turned and looked quizzically at the invalid, who let his
words tumble forth like water at a mill race. Do you read the
Arabic script, sir?
I do not, as it happens, Edgar.
No matter, your documents use the Aramaic. Similar, of
course, how could they not be? The one is the precursor of
the other; many ancient texts were written in it in the Holy
Lands and beyond.
But who would write it now, Edgar? And why in a docu-
ment meant for me?
His voice became more steady. Perhaps it was not meant
for you, Mr Moffat.
I could not but concur.
I will ask the dwarf; the damn fellow seems to think him-
self a polymath.
The newspapermans reply was to the point. In your place,
I would not.
And for why?
The man is not to be trusted, least of all by yourself,
I think.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

I advanced toward him with a meaningful look at his

swaddled appendage.
There are rumours, that is all. Unnatural rites, blood-drink-
ing, sacrifice.
He looked almost affronted when I laughed in his face.
My dear fellow, such rumours abound . They are merely fear
of the Other.
His crest had not fallen quite so far, even so. Well, Mr
Moffat, in any event the man is a strange cove and appears
to wield quite some influence in the affairs of Gibbous House,
and so of course...
In mine, I finished for him.
He gave a slow nod as much as if to agree with some inner
voice as with me.
I knew who you were. News comes in many forms, and
not everything appears in typeface. I have made it my busi-
ness to cultivate the coachmen on the Alnwick stage. So many
passengers are indiscreet to some degree, still more so in the
inns through which they pass. A man may learn much in low
bars and coaching houses for the price of a gin and water.
So you are less the reporter and more the spy, Mr Allan?
He revealed himself a true journalist by refusing to be
insulted by the jibe.
About to take my leave, my sleeve was tugged in the
manner of a beggar in the street; I shook my arm, angry at
this presumption on my person.
Predictably, he cringed, shrinking into the bolster. Never-
theless, he addressed me once more. A moment, Moffat, a

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

moment only. What if the script should be but encypherment,

a feint?
I enquired as to what he meant, though I knew well what
it was, since the idea had occurred to me scarce a quar-
ter-hour ago.
With the zealous proselytising manner to which we had
both been subjected by the policeman, he began to regale me
with an account of substitution codes and cypher wheels and
I knew not what else. He was anxious that I know that the
papers might not feature simple transliteration by transposi-
tion of the letters between alphabets, but that any or all of
these arcane techniques might well have been employed to
confound an accidental reader. He finished by reiterating:
The essential thing, Moffat, the sine qua non, as it were, is
of course a sample of the Aramaic alphabet.
I asked him how he proposed I should acquire such a
thing. He gave a sly look and said, I am sure you would get
no satisfaction from merely asking the professor to write one
for us. A man of your talents will find a way, Mr Moffat. No
one could evade the police for quite so long without some
ability as well as luck.
This may have been true, but there surely was no manner
of means by which the so-called Mr Allan might have known
the breadth of talents I did possess, nor how accustomed I
was in employing them.

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 Chapter Twenty-five

I left him abed. He had raised matters that would bear con-
sideration. I resolved to accost Miss Pardoner in her chamber,
or wherever she might be, to glean some further intelligence
concerning the crab-like curator of the Collection.
Hesitating momentarily before the teal of the door, I
reflected again how little such colours which I had noted
she liked to affect in her dress suited her colouring. I should
have preferred to see her in rich burgundies, carmines and the
shining black of Norwich bombazine. I gave the signal knock
of a seasoned molly-house visitor and received for answer the
alarmed cry: A moment, if you please!
A moment it proved to be: Miss Pardoner appeared at the
door, her Hispanic colouring made still more attractive by a
certain flush. She motioned me in a little breathlessly, a
curious conical item of polished hardwood in her hand. She
saw me eyeing the curiosity and held it up for display, demon-
strating a screwing motion of the base; the upper part of the
cone separated and, by a convoluted contraption involving a

211
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

transverse expanding bar, continued to widen as each half

was forced apart from the other.
It is a glove stretcher, Mr Moffat.
She gave me a look that dared me to challenge her. I did
not. The item was not unfamiliar to me: Arabella had owned
one, and it was indeed purposed for stretching the fingers of
a ladys glove. However, my late wife had demonstrated other
more imaginative uses on occasion.
Miss Pardoner sat on her bed and pointed to the chair
before her toilette. I nodded my thanks and turned the deli-
cate seat toward her. She had not secured or even closed the
chamber door after my entry.
Miss Pardoner, I come in search of conversation, nothing
more. We may adjourn to one of the public rooms if you
would prefer, the library perhaps?
To my surprise she nodded vigorously. I was disappointed
that she thought so much of decorum, as I had believed her
above such things.
We did not repair to the library, after all. To my utter
astonishment, the dining room appeared to have received
some attention, although from whom I knew not. Neverthe-
less, the used crockery and cutlery had all been removed; no
empty wine bottles stood sentinel over napery, only randomly
scattered crumbs bore witness to the tables former condition.
Ellen Pardoner and I sat at the head of the inordinately long
refectory table and I began my interrogations.
The professor seems an interesting fellow to be so far
from civilisation, does he not?

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Naturally, the woman chose to reply with a question. Do

you consider us quite so uncivilised here in Northumbria,
Mr Moffat?
Even Alnwick is hardly Vienna or Berlin or any other of
the groves of Academe friend Jedermann claims to have
attended, I replied, a little sharply.
Miss Pardoner appeared to have recovered some of her
poise, for the telltale corner of her mouth had risen once
again. Oh, I doubt the professor has misled us to any extent
in the matter of his scholarship.
I tried another tack. But why here? Why not London, or
Edinburgh? What could possibly have brought him here?
Was he summoned by Coble?
She sighed, a tutor before a particularly obtuse student.
Why would you go to a wild and relatively isolated place,
Mr Moffat?
I would not, I said.
But you have, she rejoindered.
I have come for profit, as you well know, though I doubt
I shall see any great quantity of it. It is beyond belief that
anyone associated with this absurd notion of Collection is
motivated by any sort of pecuniary gain.
Miss Pardoner ignored my peevish tone and offered, Not
all advantage is monetary, sir.
Humbug! Miss Pardoner. I will have an answer.
My palm smarted a little but the sound of its contact with
the wood of the table was distinctly gratifying. That Miss
Pardoner did not flinch was less so.

213
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

The professor is carrying out important research.

Indeed? It was my opportunity for the sardonic smile. Of
what kind?
Scientific, historical and religious, Mr Moffat.
Her fervour demonstrated that I had been mistaken in
considering her incapable of any utterance devoid of irony. I
informed her that whilst I found such pursuits noble in the
abstract and the singular, in practice and combination I
believed that no good could come of them.
Miss Pardoner looked down at her hands for a moment or
two, seemingly intent on finding a smut or fault on her soft
skin, There are others who believe the contrary, Septimus
Coble having been one of them.
Since I cared not a fig what Coble had believed, I merely
asked, Jedermann, does he speak many languages so well
as English?
His English was at times as I had noted previously so
very near perfection as to be that of an educated native son.
The odd cadences and Bohemian consonants were barely
perceptible. It was evident to me, however, that certain
humours caused him to fall more often into pitfalls, gram-
matical and syntactic. Miss Pardoner informed me that: the
professor is more than proficient in most modern European
Languages, although his native German owes more to
Bavaria than Prussia, I would say.
This I absorbed with some incredulity, believing Miss Par-
doner no more able to differentiate between a Mnchener

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 EWAN LAWRIE

burgher and a Prussian Junker than I myself. In any event, I

changed the object of my enquiries.
Scientific research, you say?
Oh yes, matters arcane and little known even among
She stopped, and of a sudden her hands became once more
of particular interest.
Indeed, outwith the publications of the Royal Society for
example?
For answer I received a nod.
Come, Ellen! Surely the man is not some... alchemist?
Her head came up sharply. The professor has an interest
in such things, yes... But there are other more important areas
of scholarship for him.
Well?
Vitrolium, she gave out sullenly, as if revealing a secret
vice.
And what might that be?
Miss Pardoner straightened her posture as if about to give
a recital, which perhaps she might have been.
V.I.T.R.I.O.L.V.M. that is Visita Interiora Terrae Rectifi-
cando Invenies Occultum Lapidem Veram Medicinam. Visit
the interior of the Earth; by rectification thou shalt find the
hidden stone.
I laughed.
She shook her head.
Jedermann believes he has found an original manuscript
which explains the manifestos.
Manifestos? Such lofty subjects truly did not interest me.

215
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Again her gaze fell to the hands in her lap; she spoke with
her head down in answer to the question I had not posed.
The Rosicrucian Manifestos.
So?
The document he has found was written by John Dee. The
greatest mind of the Elizabethan Age.
I disdained to inform her that the mystical nonsense that I
had heard at second hand whilst in the Edinburgh Asylum
had led me to a quite different estimation of the man.
What has this to do with me?
Do you not feel yourself meant for great things?
It seemed that Jedermann possessed sufficient charisma to
render Miss Pardoner partial to if not involved in his
bizarre researches. Or perhaps the reasons for Miss Pardon-
ers partiality had more to do with her affection for Maccabi.
It mattered not a whit to me. I resolved to do all in my power
to break the conditions of the discretionary trust and wrest
the control of my inheritance from the hands of this lunatic
and his acolytes.
We sat in silence for a while. Through the windows the
reddening sky alerted me to the fact that the Jewish Sabbath
would soon be over. No doubt still more food would be
served as it had been on those occasions when Arabella had
honoured the traditions in my company.
The long dining room was appointed with a generous
fireplace, an inglenook that would have accommodated my
entire household and an inferno fit for Beezlebub himself.
There was not a stick of wood, or smut of ash, in the volu-

216
 EWAN LAWRIE

minous grate. It had not been cold in the room during the
Sabbath repast, which by custom had begun after sundown,
and it was not uncomfortable now.
Leaning to the side, toward Miss Pardoners seat, I laid my
palm on the parquet floor. The wood was warm. It was not
likely that Gibbous House was possessed of a hypocaust,
although I supposed anything was possible. Miss Pardoner
after an uncharacteristic flinch at my proximity to her
person spoke. It is steam, sir, driven through pipes under
the floor. The professor tells me it is modelled on an innova-
tory system of the last century designed by Mrten Triewald.
For a large greenhouse in Newcastle, in fact.
And the engine? I queried.
Below, sir, the fire is below.
I wonder that I have been excluded from that part of the
house, Miss Pardoner.
As have I, sir. Perhaps it was assumed you would have no
interest in it.
She said this innocently enough. Since it might well have
been true, I chose to let it pass.
In any event, whilst there is no lack of available wood for
the fire, where are the strong of arm to feed the beast? Surely
this is not in Culliss remit as well?
For answer I received a shrug.
Miss Pardoners manner toward me had changed some-
what; I was most disappointed in this development this
demure and respectful aspect was not stimulating in the least.
Provocation seemed best suited to my purpose.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Are you much in the company of Maccabi, Miss Par-

doner?
I am more in his company than in yours.
Of late that is not so, surely?
I should be more plain, Mr Moffat. I find your company
diminishes me.
I laughed. I think even the company of Satan himself
would do little to diminish you, Ellen.
Her visage assumed a more familiar aspect.
That remains to be seen.
Well, forgive me if I have put you out of countenance. I
meant no harm. Shall we not share a friendly libation?
Her answer remained unheard as a drawn-out grinding
sound filled the dining room. One would have thought it
the progress of a capstone up the side of a pyramid, so loud
was it. The noise appeared to emanate from the enormous
fireplace. The soot-free stone of the rear of the inglenook
drew back to reveal the professor. A libation? A capital idea!
Most capital!
He beamed at the both of us from the depths of the empty
hearth.

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 Chapter Twenty-six

With an lan quite disproportionate to someone recently

emerged from behind a fireplace, the professors tiny feet
skittered across the parquet to a magnificent, if dilapidated,
sideboard. The rich walnuts topmost surface was a reposi-
tory for tantali and decanters of every shape and size; a few
dusty bottles stood guard amongst the undoubtedly valuable
crystal. The professor surveyed the glassware with a gimlet
eye then picked up the dustiest of bottles before announcing:
My friends, let us partake of the Elixir Ordinaire! No pale
imitation from La Maison Pernod Fils for we three, let us
sample Doctor Pierres original and best receipt and banish
the woodworm from the soul by a generous application of
the spirit of the wormwood.
The professor removed from a waistcoat pocket a silvered
object remarkably like a spoon, of a size with one suitable for
the consumption of a pudding save for the fact that there
were several voids of rectangular shape in the metal of the
bowl. From a long pocket of his frock coat he removed a
paper bag and placed it on the sideboard.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Opening a door below, which gave an agreeably musical

creak, he removed three small stemless glasses. Glasses mar-
shalled on the sideboard, he placed a white cube beside each
of the vessels.
He eyed both of us.
Sugar cubes: a splendid innovation, are they not?
He placed the not-quite-spoon over each glass in turn and
poured a generous measure of a particularly foul-looking
liquid over a cube and thence through the voids in the
spoons bowl. Handing each of us a glass, he said, Absinthe!
Aged and amber, the green spirit has departed but its strength
remains.
It was quite the vilest thing I had ever tasted; Miss Pardon-
ers aplomb while drinking it put me quite to shame, while
the professor seemed to favour the Slavic method of dis-
posing of the disagreeable taste of a spirit by throwing the
entire contents of his glass at once with venom toward the
back of his throat. He smacked his lips and said, Another?
I declined politely and was rewarded with a sneer from
both companions.
At precisely that moment the door opened wide and Mac-
cabi entered, followed by a comical entourage consisting of
Mrs Gonderthwaite bearing nothing and two simple-
looking fellows carrying vast covered platters of silver. These
fellows had thus far not been in evidence at any time. Mac-
cabi caught my eye and shook his head. Quite what he meant
by that, I knew not.
The two salver-bearers were as like as twins, and, further-

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 EWAN LAWRIE

more, were sufficiently low of forehead to allow a criminal

bent to their nature, according to the journalists theories.
Certainly this facet of their appearance did little to commend
a level of intelligence above that of a simian, any more than
the clatter of the salver lids that both let fall to the floor in
the act of presenting the evenings repast. A large roast of beef
filled the one to overflowing, a medley of vegetables and a
prodigious quantity of potatoes covered the other.
At this point we none of us were seated. I took my place
at the head and gestured the hesitant Maccabi to be seated.
Mrs Gonderthwaites back was already receding; the brothers
primate, however, stood slack-jawed in mirrored pose on
either long side of the table.
Out! I bellowed, and thereby ascertained that their capac-
ity for communication reached the basest human level. Leave
they did, turning cartwheels as they did so.
The professor proffered a prayer in a language unknown
to me. As he finished, I remarked that the fare seemed quite
civilised. His voice was oleaginous.
You yourself decreed that this household should not run
in accordance with ritual; I trust that you forgive me the
prayer of thanks I offered for our victuals, even so?
For reply I gave him a grunt. Three of those seated looked
expectantly from the heaped platters of food to the remaining
person. Maccabi rose stiffly and began apportioning the food.
He served it mechanically and without flourish, his move-
ments driven by ratchets and gears, but smoothly nonetheless.
As he filled Miss Pardoners plate he reached a zenith of

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

graceful mechanisms, worthy of Merlins Swan, and I admired

the control the man seemed to have over his emotions. Miss
Pardoner began exercising her silverware with gusto ere
Maccabi had reached his seat, but perhaps he did not notice,
as his eye continued to be drawn by any other thing sentient
or otherwise that it could find. He did not eat much of the
first course and nothing at all of the second, as it turned out.
The professor made several miserably unsuccessful gam-
bits in the game of conversation but could find no partner or
opponent around the table. The chink and chime of porcelain
and cutlery were all the noise to be heard in the cavernous
room and the rhythm of dinner aided me not as I pondered
how to extract a fair copy of an ancient alphabet from the
diminutive scholar. Un-summoned by any bell, the phantas-
mal Mrs Gonderthwaite appeared, flanked by her para-human
acolytes, who bore further covered chargers. These serving
dishes were laid down as gently as could be expected by such
unskilled hands. Mrs Gonderthwaite threw out a skeletal, if
imperious, finger toward the long sideboard and the two
servants scurried gibbon-like to perform a pantomime involv-
ing the opening of several drawers and doors before the
recovery of four dessert plates. The lady herself removed our
dinner plates to a dumb waiter that I could not remember
being wheeled into the room.
Oyster plates were placed upon larger plates revealed by
the removal of the main course. This corruption of the lately
fashionable service la Russe appeared to amuse the profes-

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 EWAN LAWRIE

sor greatly, as he took delight in raising his oyster-fork and

spoon from their correct position to the extreme right of his
plate and winking prodigiously at me.
We were not served oysters. To my surprise, all manner of
other shellfish was revealed by the hairy paws of the silent
servants, but no oysters. There were abalone, clams, mussels,
winkles, cockles and scallops, all served on the shell. Macca-
bis platter apart, the mute fellows spooned generous portions
onto the plates and their environs, allowing very little food
to sully the linen or our clothing, and then withdrew.
Mrs Gonderthwaite announced in a surprisingly masculine
and sturdy voice for one so unsubstantial, Only two courses.
She turned smart as a hussar to leave, but I stopped her,
saying, I hope our guest is provided for?
She did not deign to turn back, but gave a graceful nod
over her shoulder before vanishing through the double doors.
The crustaceans were cleared from our oyster plates with
a minimum of fuss. The professor in particular went at his
portion with a will that I found a little queasy, given his own
crab-like attributes; I was only grateful that lobster, crayfish
and the like had made no appearance at the table.
Frustration, not surprise, was my lot on realising that our
household staff would make no reappearance that evening:
the prospect of despatching Maccabi to the kitchen with the
crockery was once again tempting, but I scented better sport
in having him in the room.
The duration of the meal seemed an inordinate time to be
without something to slake the thirst, and I was surprised

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

that no wine had been forthcoming from the cellar or the

sideboard. I was about to offer some liquid refreshment to
the assembly when the professor once again sprang to his feet
and tap-tapped to the long sideboard. He picked up a heavy
crystal decanter; thumb and forefinger pincered around the
neck, he eyed the contents as he held it up to the light.
Red. Bordeaux, who knows how it will taste? he said, as
he found glassware and proceeded to fill it. He did not do so
in the manner of a refined oenophile, rather poured great
gouts into the bowls as though the decanter were a pitcher
and the crystal goblets the meanest pewter tankards. He
drained his own glass and refilled it before approaching the
table with our own.
It is poor stuff, he said.
He seemed awfully partial to such a poor exemplar of
vintners wares, taking another great draught from his glass
on taking his seat once more. Looking round at our dining
companions, I noted that they were rapt in contemplation of
the tiny figure. Perhaps he was the possessor of Mesmers
animal magnetism; if so, I found myself completely immune
to it.
He sported a shirt of once-fine linen, whose collar was
over-large to the extent that no amount of starch could pos-
sibly have held it upright. Naturally, the shirt itself was too
voluminous for his diminutive frame. The procurement of a
tailors services was not among the dispensations he made
from the income he doubtless received from my estate. The
trews, jacket and waistcoat had seen the benefit of needle-

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 EWAN LAWRIE

work subsequent to that of their manufacture, but this

seemed inexpert enough to have been his own handiwork.
His garb was indefinably grimy in some way, yet there were
no stains of the scholars blotted ink, the gourmands spilled
morsels or the sweat of honest labour. Still, there was some-
thing odd about it, as if below the ring of his collar lurked a
dully squamous patina over his flesh.
He seemed provoked to a certain nervosity, by what I did
not know. He fidgeted and wriggled like a child with a secret
and I asked him, quite bluntly, what lay behind the fireplace.

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 Chapter Twenty-seven

There will be time for such later, Mr Moffat, he said, and I

fancied I caught a glimpse of scaly skin as he slipped a finger
into the collar of his not-quite-white shirt.
Miss Pardoner clapped her hands and cried, A game! A
game!
Maccabi stared stolidly to his front. Jedermann bared his
teeth in a gruesome smile and I noted he was in possession of
a solitary canine, though it was of tolerable length, and it
leant him the air of an aged wolf. He countered the proposal.
But what to play, Ellen? What to play?
The cards, perhaps? she simpered, and I confess I felt an
urge to beat the woman to her former boldness or let her die
in the attempt.
I had rather die than play another hand of Whist, I said.
Maccabi looked directly at me. I had rather thought so,
since your strength might more likely lie in speculation.
Ach, I am not for the cards, said the professor, although
whether excited or under some stress, I was not sure. A par-
lour game, that is it!

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 EWAN LAWRIE

With respect, Professor, are we not a little above the Min-

isters Cat?
The prospect of such entertainments filled me with horror.
What then? asked Miss Pardoner, and her expression
reminded me that she claimed to be not yet one and twenty.
Oh, I dont doubt that the professor might have some
idea. Edify us, Jedermann, do, I urged.
The professors reaction was to begin bringing forth from
the surprisingly numerous pockets about his person crumpled
scraps of paper in various shapes and conditions. Having
assembled a pyramid-like mound, he began to smooth out
each and every one, apparently in order to peruse what might
be written on them.
The greater majority of pieces were immediately restored
by means of re-crumpling to their former quasi-spherical
states and re-sequestering in one or other of his pockets. For
the rest there remained three sheets of a similar size: viz about
that of a sheet from a reporters notebook. They appeared for
the moment to be blank, as far as I could ascertain.
The dwarf then began tearing small rectangular pieces
from each of the three sheets, of a size that might contain one
written word. He then wrote something on each scrap and
turned them face down to the table. The fidgeting had
stopped, though his eyes glittered, and he swept them over
the company before letting out in a rush, So! A game, a diver-
sion, a pasatiempo, a bagatelle!
He paused and, still aglitter, his gaze passed over us again,
before he added, But edifying! Ameliorative! Improving!

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

How very worthy! Moffat, you are truly a remarkable

fellow.
The professor began an elucidatory ramble on the conduct
of his diversion. Each word that he had written on the paper
scraps came from a different language. He emphasised that
the language might not be rendered in Latin script. Proposing
to give each of us one in turn, he enjoined us to keep it con-
cealed from the others. We were to hearken to his expert
pronunciation of the word in isolation, then to his use of
it in some witty aphorism or proverb, and finally we were
to decide whether or not we held the mysterious word in
our hand.
It sounded uncommon dull for an entertainment, even by
the abject standards of a parlour game. Nonetheless, there
were only smiles in view from my companions. The professor
slid a scrap in our respective directions, and we were obliged
to rise and recover them to our seats. Jedermann then gave
out what I presumed was a word in stentorian tones, although
he was unable to prevent it sounding ridiculous:
Pea-yat!
I was none the wiser on looking at the paper carefully
concealed in my palm.
The dwarfs voice filled the cavernous dining room once
more with a longer chain of folderol which sounded some-
thing akin to: Loo tche eemyet pee-yat vragov tchem sto
drooz-yei lozh-nykh.
There was no mark on my paper indicative of Chinee, and
so I remained convinced that the word was not mine. But this

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 EWAN LAWRIE

part of the game gave me great hope: the quotation of the

word in context could not possibly provide any help to a
player of it. Therefore, what purpose did it serve other than
to gratify an overweening vanity on the part of the professor
concerning his skill as a linguist? I was in great hope of turn-
ing this self-regard to advantage.
Still less to the purpose was the professors no doubt eru-
dite translation of this so he claimed ancient Slavic
proverb as: Better to have five enemies than one hundred
false friends.
Both Maccabi and Miss Pardoners smiles had grown
wider, indeed I believed that my wards shoulders were shak-
ing slightly and she appeared to be at pains to maintain her
self-control. On collecting herself a little, she announced:
The word is not mine. And with an unladylike snicker
she revealed her paper. Five was written in a skilled and
legible hand.
Maccabis smile became a smirk and I hated him for it.
Nor mine, he said and he revealed a word that I rec-
ognised, as Arabella had once written it out for me:

It meant five.
The colour rose to my cheeks as all three laughed when I
turned over my paper to reveal

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

I marvelled that there were only three others around the table
and not five, which would have rendered the supposed prov-
erb more apposite. The professor, noting that I was not
pleased at being made the butt of their joke, attempted to
cajole me to better humour.
Come, Mr Moffat, surely you agree our little charade was
amusing. I had thought you would guess that the game was
pure invention. In any case, I doubt you will ever forget the
Russian word for five, to be sure.
Maccabi looked smug, Miss Pardoner more so. I did not
respond directly, but asked instead with how many languages
he was familiar.
Familiar? What does that mean? That I might recognise
but not understand? That I might write but not speak, in the
manner of Latin, Ancient Greek or Sumerian? Or that I might
speak and not write, like Chinee or Hindoo?
It was typical of him to answer a question with another of
his own. He was not finished, however; like many learned
men he was inordinately fond of the sound of his own voice.
I confess to you all, by whichever criterion you choose to
define familiar, I do not, in truth, know. I do know the
Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, Latin and, as you saw, the Cyrillic
alphabets, as well as many of the languages written in Latin
or Cyrillic. Why do you ask, Moffat?
Here stood the chained and padlocked gate in my path:
why indeed? The man had offered me an opportunity, by
himself bringing up the matter of alphabets. I resolved to

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 EWAN LAWRIE

feign an interest in the cursed Collection, and in particular

that part of it which took volume and parchment form.
I believe I should like, as the putative owner of such a fine
repository of books as is contained in the Collection, to be
the better equipped to peruse them. Oh, I do not expect to
learn the cuneiform of the Sumerians, since no one has any
clue what their tablets mean. No, indeed, I should merely
like to know the origin of a work by sight of the script
alone, and to be able to differentiate the Aramaic from the
Hebrew, perhaps.
Miss Pardoner gave a snort, while Maccabi leaped up to
offer his kerchief that she might wipe the Bordeaux from her
upper lip and chin.
The professor appeared not to notice and began, not alto-
gether unexpectedly, to pontificate at length on the similarities
and differentiating characteristics of the Hebrew and Ara-
maic scripts. Thankfully, and I did feel most grateful to the
fellow, Maccabi kept our glasses charged through an infini-
tesimally detailed account of cursive strokes, descenders,
ascenders and the development of the delineations of the
latter from the former. In demonstrating their similarity he
used a paper of the three scarcely used by the game and drew
what he informed us were the Aramaic Qop alongside the
Hebrew Kuf.
The one appeared as no different from the other save the
Aramaic letter had the look of a childs letter p, and the
Hebrew an angular look more suggestive of its name. Taking
advantage of a pause occasioned by the dwarfs imbibing of

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

another prodigious swallow of wine, I said, Most fascinating,

Enoch. Would you fashion for me a fair copy of the two
alphabets that I might compare them at my leisure?
Miss Pardoner appeared to have less trouble with her wine
on that occasion; she may have had a mote in her eye, though
I imagine she winked at Maccabi.
The professor dipped his pen and carved the twenty-eight
Arabic letters from right to left on the thick vellum sheet he
had chosen, blew on them in the absence of any sand and laid
down the Aramaic letters beneath them.
I thanked him and folded the stiff paper into a pocket.
We were all startled when the doors to the dining room
were thrown wide, and no less surprised when the detective
stepped into the room. Assuming Mrs Gonderthwaite had
answered some summons to the front entrance, I felt the
tickle of anger that she should presume to usher the fellow to
our table and not announce his arrival, much less inform us
that he waited without. He was still in his uniform, but made
the politeness of removing the top hat, which he carried
uncomfortably under his arm. He eyed each of us in turn.
There is no doubt of it, he said.
Inasmuch as I, myself, am in doubt as to what you refer
to, Constable, I should say there is considerable doubt of
something, I replied.
It is murder, of course, Constable Turner elucidated.
I was considering a response, when Maccabi blurted out,
Oh come, Constable, the man fell down the hill and took a
blow from a rock. Very likely he was drunk. He often was.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

The policeman gave Maccabi a look with which he seemed

to take his measure and find him wanting in some degree.
A blow from a rock was surely taken by the poor sot, its
true. It is only that I should like to know by whom the blow
was given.
It was with some disbelief that I saw the colour rise in
Maccabis face. What was the matter with the man? Did I but
have such fellows about me in Cheapside, never would I have
given the Peelers a second thought!
Constable Turner, in an apparent leap to unrelated matters,
enquired, The scribbler, Allan, where is he?
The professor informed him that the reporter had met with
an unfortunable accident, the misstep in his speech betray-
ing to me at least his own nervousness in the presence of
the law. Ellen Pardoner was darting looks from Maccabi to
the professor and thence to the investigator. It appeared to me
that the most cool of manner in the room were the man inves-
tigating the crime and the man who had committed it.
Turner gave a nod and drew a deep breath through his
nose. It was a magnificent specimen, worthy of a prizefighter
at a fair, although perhaps not a good one. He released the
breath, and it seemed that he had used this aspiration to calm
himself or gird his loins for some prospective challenge. He
said nothing.
Against my better judgement, I posed a question of my
own: What brings you to the conclusion that the man was
dealt a blow rather than the victim of an unfortunate acci-
dent, Constable?

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

It is quite simple, Mr Moffat, the rock covered with blood

is on the crown of the hill, whilst the unfortunates body was,
as you saw, in the pond. It is most unlikely that he could have
fallen against that rock with such force at the top of the rise.
He was right of course; I had been careless, but, truly, who
could have expected any policeman to take an interest in an
accident at Gibbous House?

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 Chapter Twenty-eight

Turner looked expectantly at me. Being at a loss as to what

expectation lay behind this regard, I offered to summon Mrs
Gonderthwaite. I presume you have not dined, Constable?
You are come too late to share our meal, but if you require
some sustenance I will ring for the cook.
He replied curtly, Bread and cheese, sir.
I made my way to a fabric bell pull beside the large hearth,
only to be intercepted by the professor carrying the hand bell
from the dining table.
This one, Moffat, the other is not functioning.
The professors eyes darted to my hand hovering beside the
brocaded fabric of the bell pull, and he ran a familiar finger
around his oversized collar. I took the hand bell from him and
shook it violently. It made its customary unmusical sound. I
bade the constable take his ease at table.
In deference to my position, Maccabi restrained himself,
and offered no contribution at this point. He appeared
uncomfortable, however, and once more was to be observed
from the corner of the eye, continuously squirming under the

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

obsidian gaze of the policeman. Even the professor seemed

inclined to keep his counsel, apparently relieved at ensuring
my use of the correct bell.
Miss Pardoner did not remain silent. She turned in her
chair to examine the constable the better, pushing aside the
remains of her repast to lean both elbows on the wood in a
most forward manner. Her eyelids made rapid and contrived
motion and she breathed a question in one word: Murder?
If the investigators visage showed any reaction to Miss
Pardoner, it was only that of Theseus regarding Medusas
head dangling from his grip. I gave my ward a stern look.
That is quite enough, Miss Pardoner. This is a serious matter.
Frivolity will not aid us in the capture of the villain.
Murder is serious, Mr Moffat, Turner agreed, nodding
sagely at Miss Pardoner, but he said no more, seemingly con-
tent to await his loaf and cheddar.
Once more I was struck by the remarkable passivity
required in this new science of detection. By the same token,
I was beginning to feel as uncomfortable around the police-
man as Maccabi. Still, I resolved to engage with Turner.
So, Constable Turner, an itinerant rogue, a vagabond foot-
pad. Do you think such a thing likely?
He gave me the benefit of his most stony regard and said,
I surely would, but for the lack of motive, Mr Moffat.
Robbery, perhaps?
He shook his head, slowly. Hardly that. The corpse had a
golden guinea in his waistcoat pocket.
Maccabis eyes started from his head, my ward gave a

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 EWAN LAWRIE

gasp; my face remained composed, but I was filled with rage

that I had not searched the body, since the man appeared to
have been in possession of more pecuniary assets than myself
at the time.
Once more the policeman fell silent. I found it difficult not
to offer to ensure the guinea found its way to the surviving
brother, surmising that the policeman would rather see to this
himself. Maccabi, still uncomfortable in the presence of the
law, stammered, B-but do you have your suspicions? Surely
we are not suspected?
Not we, but certainly Maccabi.
At that point Mrs Gonderthwaite appeared. The two het-
eroclite specimens moved in harmony behind her, although to
what purpose I could not tell. There was something vaguely
familiar about their simian features, as though had they been
drawn by a more expert hand they would have resembled a
human of my acquaintance.
I addressed the cook. Constable Turner will have a fresh
loaf and some cheddar.
No sooner had I said it than I wished for something more
outlandish, since, on previous evidence, almost anything
could be produced from the bare pantry as if from a magi-
cians sleeve.
The woman and her hominid acolytes departed to conjure
the victuals from the thin air of the kitchen. I enjoined the
professor to provide the company with a libation of his choos-
ing, the greensome foulness excepted. He skipped lightly to
the task, and with an eye for Maccabis reaction I enquired

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

of Turner, Shall we each of us then expect an inquisition? I

wonder which of us is in a position to claim alibi? Certainly
I have enjoyed a modicum of my own company of late, with
none to vouch for me. I expect others are more fortunate.
He composed his features quickly, but not before two lines
in his brow briefly indicated an interior reflection. Strangely,
he replied: Oh, I am not concerned about such things. After
all, how can we know when the fellow met his fate? A diary
of movements would not help my investigation. Besides, my
opinion is that what has occurred is that rare thing: a motive-
less crime.
Motiveless? What do you mean?
Motive is one to the three pillars of crime detection.
Except in extremely unusual circumstances, for every mur-
derer there must be the motive for, the means by which, and
the opportunity to commit any crime.
Speak English, man!
The why, the how and the combination of time and
favourable circumstance. But as I say, I consider this an
exceptional case.
It now fell to me to feel less than comfortable; perhaps
there was more to the marvel of detection than I had hereto-
fore thought. It mattered not, for at that moment the
constables sustenance arrived in a most peculiar manner. The
doors swung wide, but there was no sign of the cook. Instead,
the pair of near-primates came in at quite a lick, the one
holding a large round loaf upon his head and the other rolling
a gigantic cheese before him in the manner of a child with a

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 EWAN LAWRIE

hoop and a stick. They stopped short at the table, near

the policemans seat, composed themselves in crude imitation
of the most obsequious of footmen and laid the comestibles
before our guest. They gave him an animalistic showing
of teeth, which may have been a smile, and withdrew. The
policeman gave a tiny smile of his own and said, I wonder
which of the brothers is the father? There is but little of
Mrs Gonderthwaite in them, save perhaps about the eyes.
Well, they are short an uncle or a father, in any event.
The professor gave a shrug, Maccabi gave one of his
own, although with some stiffness about it. On Miss
Pardoners face I espied a not unexpected smirk, as she
informed Turner and myself, At the risk of indelicacy, I
am given to understand that as to the paternity of the two
Mrs Gonderthwaite is undecided, much as she has long
been undecided in the matter of the relative charms of the
two possible candidates.
What exercised my mind was my inability to imagine what
the two imbeciles would do with a guinea.
The professor placed a glass of leaded crystal before me, a
beautiful thing. Brilliants glittered as the candlelight caught
the geometric cuts in the glass.
Beautiful, isnt it? he said.
I raised the stemware to eye level. Indeed the vessel is
a thing of rare beauty. What, pray, is the unattractive liquid
it contains?
It is a digestif, Mr Moffat. The Germans are exceptionally

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

blessed with a number of truly magnificent bitters, but this,

good sir, is a giant among them: Kujawische Magen-Essenz.
The liquid had the colour of the water in a well-used horse
trough. Its name seemed a grandiose appellation for some-
thing quite so unappetising. Nevertheless, I sipped a little of
it. It was less emetic than the absinthe, but not by a very great
amount. The professor returned to his seat.
Meanwhile, the policeman was making little impression on
his loaf, and still less on the enormous cheddar. Miss Par-
doner had begun fidgeting, while Maccabi seemed calmer.
Perhaps he had been in need of the bitters.
Are you in need of some diversion, Miss Pardoner? Or do
you wish to excuse yourself our dull male company?
She coloured a little. Dull indeed, sir. Might we not elevate
ourselves with a little conversation? she enquired.
Elevate? I gave Maccabi a look of enquiry.
I am sure Miss Pardoner does not think you in need of
elevation, Maccabi.
He seemed to stifle a reply.
Well, Ellen, it seems you must make do with such conver-
sation as the rest of us might provide, although I doubt
anything I might say would prove of an elevatory nature,
I said.
At this point, the constable, having given up the unequal
struggle with the cheese, asked the company, The reporter?
Allan? I wonder, has he mentioned a certain name?.
We have passed some hours in conversation, it would be

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 EWAN LAWRIE

strange indeed if none were mentioned. I yawned, although

it was yet early.
For once the policemans detachment wavered.
D____, sir. One name in particular, I mean to say a name
of antiquity that is...
But I knew before he uttered the name, Cadwallader.
To no great surprise, Maccabi gave a start, which the
policeman appeared not to remark.
Miss Pardoner asked innocently, The last Welsh King of
Britain?
It took some effort not to laugh, as puzzlement seeped over
the policemans features. He seemed unsure whether he was
being played for a gull.
No, miss. Heathfield Cadwallader.
Both the professor and Maccabi gave a firm No!
He mentioned him to me, in passing, I said.
I might have died from the look Maccabi gave me, were
such things possible. From the professors look I would have
been a very long time doing so.
The constable, his face offering a negative opinion on the
bitters, addressed me thus: In passing? I have found him
monomaniacal on the subject.
The professor scrambled from his chair and seized the
nearmost bottle from the long sideboard. Shall we be hav-
ing another?
I waved the academic away and asked, How so, Consta-
ble?
He lifted his crystal but decided against a further sip and

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

replaced the glass somewhat delicately over the ring it had

left on the wood.
Mr Allan made my acquaintance shortly after beginning
his employment at the Mercury. From that time scarcely a
day has gone by when he has not importuned after the
fate of one Heathfield Cadwallader. A party, I should add,
of whom I have never heard, much less encountered, in
any capacity.
Miss Pardoner, in a more serious tone than earlier, asked,
But why?
Maccabi let out a sigh and the policeman considered him
momentarily before answering the young woman. If I might
be so bold as to suggest, subject of course to Mr Allans dis-
position, that he be brought below, I think it might interest
you all to hear his obsessions first hand.
A capital idea! I said, although, judging by the expres-
sions of Maccabi and the dwarf, others did not share my
enthusiasm. I instructed Maccabi to see to the transposition
of Allan from his sickbed to our presence, and he made off to
do so with more alacrity than good grace.
The doors closed behind him. The professor, his grasp of
grammar recovered along with his equanimity, asked:
Forgive me, Sergeant, but what of your investigation?
Poor Cullis?
Constable, Professor, Constable. He was quick to assert
his true status, but a thin smile showed he was not above the
implied flattery. It proceeds, sir, it proceeds.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

I caught Miss Pardoners eye and became convinced she

shared my own opinion that the great detective was no more
nor less than a humbug.

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 Chapter Twenty-nine

I confess that I myself started as the doors opened again with

a clatter. It seemed that Maccabi had arranged Allans arrival
with more care for its despatch than its safety. Mrs Gonder-
thwaites offspring entered bearing the reporter in the manner
of a litter, one brothers hairy paws were clamped around
poor Allans shins whilst the other had a firm grip on his
upper arms.
He made a sorry litter, however, for he sagged quite dra-
matically at the middle. The brothers, without malevolence
but with little care, deposited him in a chair at the police-
mans right hand. Allan looked a little pale, but he must have
been in better health than he appeared for he drained Turners
glass of its bitters and his grimacing worsened hardly at all.
Constable Turner allowed Edgar Allan a few moments to
compose himself before abruptly bidding him Begin!
Evidently, Maccabi had apprised him of the reason for his
summoning for he began in a wavering voice, What is fear,
I ask you? To phrase it mathematically here a nod to
the professor fear is the product of mystery multiplied by

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 EWAN LAWRIE

imagination. Which factors I must explain. I do not mean the

hermeneutic mysteries of the Kabbala or of the Brotherhood
of the Rosy Cross. Rather the unexplained and unexplainable
in the world of the mundane. Equally, I do not mean the
contrived imaginations of the novelist or playwright. No, I
refer to the visceral imagination of those alone and abroad in
the night.
He hesitated at this point, perhaps concerned at the pro-
fessors bristling at the mention of the Kabbalists and
Rosicrucians, which I remembered meant Order of the Rosy
Cross while the former, as I understood it, was a system of
belief practised by Knights Templar, Masonic Lodges and all
manner of secret societies.
Put forward the case, a hypothetical one to be sure, of a
man found delirious in a street in, shall we say, Baltimore.
The man raves, crying out the name Reynolds from time to
time. He is soon taken up. His last words might be Lord,
help my poor soul, since many call on Him for the first
time at the last. The man is buried in the clothes in which
he was found. They are not his own, they say, and the name
on the tailors labels does not match the one upon his
headstone. So who has died? One man or two? Or is this the
only Resurrection?
His voice had grown stronger through this short oration
and the white flecks on his lips resisted the sharp lick of his
tongue. But he was barely begun and continued thus: Or
shall we put another case, more empirical in essence
although perhaps lacking a body of proof? Can a man in this

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

modern age just disappear? It would seem he can: the mere

assumption of a name can change a man so completely as to
place him beyond the grasp of determined pursuers. Even so,
if a man plunges into baptismal waters, as it were, does he
not reappear somewhere, reborn? Can he not be found if an
image of the disappeared is at hand?
At this point, Allan produced from his coat two daguerre-
otype portraits about the size of a small volume. One depicted
himself a little younger, less careworn. He held up the other
to the company for their perusal.
This is Heathfield Cadwallader.
I recognised him, certainly. So, I was sure, did the others,
since he yet remained in residence in the gatehouse.
A handsome fellow, is he not? His looks would preserve
well in age, I think, I said.
He was a cousin, distant I admit. Impecunious too, and
not above a supplicant letter, even to a relative as distant in
miles as in blood. He was persistent. Many letters I threw
away unread over the years, but one last missive I did open,
I cannot tell you why. It was written in Newcastle and des-
patched on a ship across the Atlantic: a letter of quite
different character. No tales of hardship, no pecuniary
requests, simply a few veiled hints as to an improvement in
expectations. He mentioned a large house in the north and a
notary in Seahouses, but he was not more specific. My own
letter of encouragement went unanswered.
He picked up his glass, by now quite drained of bitters; the
professor nimbly arose and filled it with more of the same.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Allan sipped absently and cleared his throat before continu-

ing. Some years later, it ah behove me to depart the
Americas. Being experienced in the Fourth Estate, I thought
to try my hand in Northumberland. I took a position at first
with The Journal in Newcastle, with a view to finding my
relative and seeing if his expectations had been met. At first,
I enjoyed uncommon luck. The Office of the Turnpike
Authority had had occasion to deal with a Mr Heathfield
Cadwallader. It seems my relative had been in the habit of
travelling between York and Newcastle on the stage, whilst
taking the opportunity of relieving the more gullible passen-
gers of their valuables at cards. He was little suspected at first,
being in the respectable company of a wife. He was warned
off the coaches in Newcastle at a date shortly before that of
his letter.
Cadwallader appeared to have been a resourceful enough
fellow, I was intrigued that he had met so grisly an end.
Somewhat abruptly to my mind, Miss Pardoner took her
leave of the company. Maccabi, the reporter and myself
stood, as ceremony dictates. A nimble dismount from his
seating arrangement proved too much for the professor on
this occasion, and it seemed the policeman also cared not for
such niceties. Allan seemed disinclined to continue, staring at
the table surface as if some clue could be discerned in the
grain of the wood.
It was Maccabi who roused him from his contemplations.
And you were not so successful, thenceforth?

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Allan gave a start, as though he had been in Baltimore or

Brooklyn rather than across the table.
Ah no. I spent several months in Newcastle. I heard noth-
ing, not in the public saloon bar nor the finest restaurants.
Despondency filled me, I confess.
Early one morning at the turn of the year, I sat, wrapped
in my topcoat, at a wharf on the quayside. I confess the pre-
vious evening had ended in ignominy, when the landlord of a
nearby public house had evicted me with some force. The
sandstone wall beside the wharf had served me quite well as
a cot. Of a sudden, a large, black bird alighted beside me. I
am obliged to tell you that I am possessed of an unreasonable
fear of all birds, particularly those of the genus corvus.
Quickly, though yet unsteady on my feet, I ran up the
nearby stairs. Carved from the ubiquitous sandstone, these
vertiginous flights join the riverside areas with the centre of
the town. The Morrigan pursued me with much flapping
and cawing. Despite my fear, I looked back over my shoulder
at the bird, missing my step on occasion. I know now as I
knew then that such behaviour on those stone stairs was
foolhardy. Still, what a man fears will fascinate him also,
dont you think?
He paused, wiping a sleeve across his mouth, lately flecked
with white.
I breasted the top of the stairway, ran pell-mell down a
chare, narrow and dank and slippery underfoot from uncol-
lected pure. The bird followed, cawing close to my ear.
I stumbled, threw my arms up to protect my head and

248
 EWAN LAWRIE

recognised the bird as Corvus corax sinuatus: a traveller as

far from home as myself. Any here who know the true nature
of fear will not be surprised that I fell into a dead faint.
Edgar Allan darted a look at the policeman, at which the
latter raised his eyebrows and gave a diffident shrug of his
shoulders. The reporter began to speak once more.
Ah... I was shaken awake some time later. One would
suppose that I had been lucky not to suffer some assault or
larceny on my person. On checking my pockets I found them
no more empty than before, so perhaps luck played little part
in it after all. The waking hand belonged to ahem a
member of the Northumbrian constabulary.
Again he looked at the policemans most inexpressive face.
Truly, the man was an incompetent liar; one wondered
how he had made any kind of fist of the writing trade, much
less journalism.
The incident with the bird had shaken me to the core, and
I prevailed upon the constable to join me in a drink for restor-
ative purposes. We emerged from the dingy alley and repaired
to the Scotswood, a ramshackle but welcoming establish-
ment. We took a porter for the body of it, as proof against
the cold. The man remarked upon my accent, claimed he
found it strange, and the conversation became an interview.
He asked me why I was so far from home. I explained I was
looking for a distant relative, that I had traced him to New-
castle and that the trail had vanished, as though the man had
been plucked from existence by the hand of an unseen deity.
Once more, he stopped short. He fiddled with his collar

249
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

and the bottom of his waistcoat, seeming remarkably uncom-

fortable in his clothes. Suddenly he threw out a forefinger
toward Constable Turner.
You! Turner, put aside this nonsense! Tell your part of
the story.

250
 Chapter Thirty

Turner seemed unperturbed by the outburst.

I informed Mr Allan that such disappearances were not
uncommon. Indeed, I myself had heard of a mysterious
matter occurring in rural Northumbria. A man seen in the
company of a respected notary and not heard of since.
Rumour abounded as to his fate, naturally enough.
Here Allan interrupted, having recovered a little of his
poise, but remaining prone to excitement. It was Cadwal-
lader! Imagine that!
The professors glass shattered on the floor.
Imagine! I said equably.
Equable was not a word one could have used to describe
the look Maccabi gave me at this point. The professor seized
the hand bell and rang it vigorously. As the dissonance faded,
I bade the policeman continue.
Nothing more to say. I spoke with several notaries in the
north Northumbrian region and none seemed disposed to
throw any light on the matter.
The professor let out a breath like an old bellows. Maccabis

251
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

parade ground spine was mollified a little, at least until the

irrepressible reporter declared: But I know he visited John
Brown of Seahouses.
And if he did? How came you by this information? Mac-
cabi said, then wiped his spittle from the table with a sleeve.
A journalists sources are confidential.
Maccabi looked as though he believed that confidentiali-
tys battlements could be easily stormed, could he himself but
grasp the throat of the newspaperman. The cracked bell rang
sourly again, more to provide distraction than out of impa-
tience, no doubt.
As the professor placed the bell on the table, Mrs Gonder-
thwaite appeared, broom in hand. The womans appearance
was quite fey enough to allow for the gift of second sight,
although it might have been that her lack of substance
enabled her to listen at doors undetected.
It seems Mr Allan is over-excited, I posited. We should
have allowed him a little more time in recuperation, per-
haps?
There were enthusiastic nods. The professor offered to
escort Mr Allan to his chamber. I thought it a capital idea. Mr
Allan seemed less enamoured of the idea, shrinking from the
professors touch as they left the dining room. Allan, still less
than fully ambulatory, hopped and skipped ahead of the scut-
tling gnome.
I thought wed never be rid of them, Jedediah. I smiled
at the louring lumpkin. The policeman, as taciturn as ever,
said nothing.

252
 EWAN LAWRIE

What you will, Mr Moffat, he sneered.

Indeed so, Jedediah.
We all three stood close to the tapestry bell pull beside the
fireplace. I looked into the huge space in the hearth. I could
see no mechanism. What lay behind and whence had the
professor come earlier? I looked again at the length of tapes-
try alongside the fireplace. The professor was in the habit of
summoning servants with the cracked hand bell. I waved at
the moth-eaten pull.
Would you mind? I asked, looking at Constable Turner.
For answer he gave a perfunctory tug on the cloth. It
proved sufficient: I heard the sound evocative of Ancient
Egypt once more, and the stone to the rear of the inglenook
grated to the side. As grimily cinereous as the fireplace was
pristine, a passage led off to who knew what.
After you, Jedediah, I said.
Scant steps into the passage, which inclined downward
from the outset, the diameter of the corridor was constricted
by two vast examples of columnar statuary. Maccabi sidled
past for the way was strait indeed. Constable Turner followed.
My eye was caught by the two statues, for though the
couloir darkened somewhat a few yards ahead there was
sufficient light to descry the lineaments created by the
unknown mason. To the right was a man-like figure, although
of gargantuan size. As I looked closer, I could see that no cold
chisel had formed this representation: the piece seemed to be
moulded from red clay. There had indeed been skill in it. In

253
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

the huge heads face the lines were as sharp as the features
themselves were blunt.
Their physiognomy revealed that no paragon of beauty
had been discovered by the hand fashioning the clay. The
mouth looked not so much cruel as coarsely incapable of
expression. A low forehead indicated a base, unthinking
nature, whilst the Mongolian cast to the eye brought to mind
the brutal warriors of the Khan. The figure was naked: ana-
tomically accurate and of proportionate size.
The modellers whim made the gap between the two statues
all the narrower. Facing the clay giant was a female figure of
equally exaggerated dimensions. A cruelly beautiful face had
been chiselled in the soft, red Collyhurst. This figure too was
naked, save for a peculiar shaped shawl on her shoulders. A
very fine chisel indeed had been applied to the delicate areas.
Maccabi turned back. Are you coming, Mr Moffat?
But where are we going, Maccabi? Besides, there must be
time to admire those things worthy of it on our way, dont
you agree?
What? Oh, those.
I pointed at the erect member on the male statue. Perhaps
these are religious figures?
Folkloric, Mr Moffat, Constable Turner interposed. The
lucky fellow, I believe, is a representation of the Golem of
Prague, while the woman, most likely, is a dybbuk.
It was quite worth suffering the policemans smug look to
see the slack dangling of Maccabis jaw.

254
 EWAN LAWRIE

I knew the legend about the monster of reanimated clay,

but was forced to enquire about what a dybbuk might be.
Maccabi answered, A dybbuk is a possessive spirit. The
shawl shape on her shoulders represents the dybbuk. The
woman is just a woman.
A remarkable example nevertheless, I observed.
I squeezed between the guardians and drew up to the
others. At this point the passage was yet wide enough to
allow us to walk abreast. The ceiling was unusually high, but
lighting was there none. Maccabi drew out a lucifer match
and struck light. We descended into Hades.
It was hot indeed. Turner was the first to loosen his collar
and abandon his coat. It lay behind us on the rough stone
floor of the passage, relict of a burned scarecrow. The heat
became almost unbearable before Maccabi dispensed with
his own coat and thus allowed me to do the same.
There were arcane, almost runic scratchings in the walls of
the passage, even before the masonry walls gave way to
the rough hewing through the rock beneath the houses
foundations. Yet still it was hot. We had walked several
chains, although not yet a furlong, and while the descent was
not precipitous it was remarkable. None spoke, although all
were hard-pressed not to pant in the manner of hounds after
a fox.
At first it was merely dark. But the further we descended,
the more the white shirts of my fellow troglodytes seemed to
assume a faintly vermilion tinge, and the dark became more
a crepuscular gloom. By this time, possibly by dint of an

255
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

advantage in years over the good policeman, Maccabi was to

the fore.
He stopped suddenly. There was no cry of surprise or
alarm. He said nothing, merely pointing a forefinger ahead of
him into a red glow. Turner and I reached Maccabi at the
same moment.
Are you previously unacquainted with this part of Gib-
bous House, Mr Maccabi? I asked.
Answer came there none. Following the direction indicated
by his forefinger, I looked into a large chamber bathed in a
hellish-red light. Vast heating stoves filled the half of it. At any
one time three or more of the stoves doors yawned, throwing
out red light into the room and beyond.
A great deal of activity greeted our gaze: dozens of tall and
dark-skinned bodies fed the maws of the fiery beasts with
coal and the occasional piece of furniture, for the remainder
of the room contained pieces as eclectic and possibly as valu-
able as those in the famed Collection.
I turned to the policeman.
A most wasteful source of heat for a house lacking so
much glaziery in its windows, wouldnt you say?
That would depend, Mr Moffat, he said.
On what?
It was Maccabi, seemingly in possession of a tongue once
more, who answered, On whether such machines do serve
some other purpose.
The Ethiops continued their task, oblivious to our obser-
vation. Maccabi made to wave an arm to attract their

256
 EWAN LAWRIE

attention, but Turner laid a hand on his arm. They are likely
deaf and dumb; it would serve no purpose.
It was true that none could have worked many days in the
cavernous room without becoming as deaf as stone, although
we had heard nothing, even at the very end of the passage.
On the threshold, it was uncommon loud. I stepped back a
pace and the noise vanished as if it had never been.
We retraced our steps in silence. I strained to hear any faint
echo of the industrial cacophony in the underground cham-
ber; there was none. As I stooped to recover my coat from the
passage floor, I caught sight of the initials HC hacked into
the rock of the wall.
A shiver racked my bones and I pondered the circum-
stances that had led from the carving of the initials to the
hideous thing keeping vigil in the gatehouse of the estate. The
other two recovered their own garments. Maccabi dashed the
dust from his own, his lips tightening with each blow from
the flat of his hand on the worsted.
The statues straitening the passage looked less imposing
from the reverse approach, although the Golems attributes
remained impressive. The figures were not quite so well illu-
minated as before, since the entrance before us remained
obdurately closed.
I presume there is a lever on this side too, Jedediah? I
asked.
How should I know? he replied, somewhat snappishly I
felt.
Have we more lucifers? enquired the practical policeman.

257
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Maccabi replied in the negative and the two of them set

about feeling the environs of the featureless stone before us.
There is nothing, Maccabi said, although Turner contin-
ued his tactile examination of the blank wall.
There is always something, I remarked. I believe at last I
begin to understand the workings of the lunatic mind respon-
sible for this most peculiar home of mine.
With that I returned to the statue of the Golem, and ren-
dered his glory into a less erect state. The familiar grate of
heavy stone echoed in the passage and the wall drew back to
reveal the dwarf, grinning like a natural.
Welcome, welcome back from the Underworld, gentle-
men. The professor threw back his head and laughed, an
outburst that looked most peculiar from one of his stature.
Maccabi started for the mannikin, hands outstretched as if
to throttle the air above the fellows head and bellowed,
Slaves!
Slaves? The professor hopped nimbly to the side, although
in no danger from the much taller Maccabi until such time
as the latter approached him on his knees.
They are not slaves! Although they might well have been!
he continued.
It is a strange kind of freedom enjoyed below the ground,
Professor, the policeman offered.
Ach, they do not want to leave. What would they do here?
Likely give rise to all sorts of rumours and fanciful tales,
I interposed.
The academic straightened to the limit of his short stature.

258
 EWAN LAWRIE

Septimus Coble and I bought these men some years ago

from an American planter. They have been paid a working
wage ever since. Should they wish to leave they may.
It seemed to me that he knew full well they would not;
could not.
The policeman was saved from preventing Maccabi
assaulting the diminutive academic by the arrival of Miss
Pardoner in a state of some agitation. Maccabi forced his
hands behind his back and recovered himself sufficiently so
as not to alarm the young woman.
In truth, she spared him not the briefest glance. I had never
seen her so lacking in self- possession and I felt a stirring at
the prospect of inducing such a commotion in her myself. I
hoped that the time would come soon.

259
 Chapter Thirty-one

She was not so discomposed as to be hysterical. The colour

in her cheeks was high indeed, however, and she shrilled
breathlessly, Professor, come quickly, the journalist, hes...
She did not finish, her hand merely flew to her mouth and she
began to chew the knuckle of her forefinger distractedly. The
professor scampered toward the doors leading from the
dining room. All followed, as bizarre a retinue as ever trailed
behind anyone, much less a dwarf.
Edgar Allan was not dead. The violence of his fit indicated
that he might soon be so, or at least wish that he were. His
head seemed half as big again as when last I had seen him, the
whites of his eyes were a solid carmine, his lips were stretched
wide and he gnashed as many teeth as would be visible in a
flensed skull. It seemed foolhardy to approach his thrashing
limbs. The pitcher and basin that had presumably been stand-
ing on the table at the bedside lay shattered on the floor, the
pieces standing guard over something most unsavoury.
Foolhardy or not, the professor braved the flailing arms of
the invalid and produced a curious arrangement of gutta

260
 EWAN LAWRIE

percha, a flat disc and two small wooden cylinders. These

latter parts inserted into his ears, he approached the afflicted
writer boldly and evading teeth and arms deftly placed
the disc on the fellows chest. With remarkable sang-froid he
remained still, head on one side, apparently listening for
something. Abruptly he leaped back and snatched the con-
traption from his person.
Bah! What can you expect? That man Leared is nothing
but a damned charlatan. I doubt if anything from the exhibi-
tion will amount to less than his ridiculous stethoscope.
Clearly, the apparatus had not functioned as advertised,
although what that function might have been, I had no idea.
The writers distress continued unabated, his back arching
from time to time in simulacrum of the most flexible of
Indian fakirs.
How long has he been so? The professor asked Miss Par-
doner.
I do not know. The seizure was as you see it but a minute
before I came to summon you.
Her eyes darted to the side as she spoke.
Perhaps she did not want to admit to a moment of panic
and some undue delay caused by it; from what I presumed of
her character I felt that unlikely. Maccabi, predictably, hov-
ered at her shoulder, constantly on the point of lending a
comforting arm before deciding again to allow propriety
its due.
The professor addressed him sharply: Jedediah, my medi-
cal bag. From my room if you please.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

He was almost through the door when the policeman

called after him, No need for haste, not on his part. A long
finger pointed at the frozen contortion that could not truly
be called the writers final repose, although he would never
move again.
The bell, said the professor.
Miss Pardoner, stepping carefully to avoid the contents of
the shattered chinaware, moved to exercise the pinchbeck
pull mounted in the wall over the nightstand. It was a large
and intricately cast piece of tarnished brass, whose base was
formed in the image of a metallic corvid trapped in the sub-
stance of the wall, beak agape in protest at the indignity of
being drawn from it repeatedly, with never a hope of escaping
the plaster.
Miss Pardoner gave a sharp cry as she drew the bird out;
no blood was evident but it seemed that in the young wom-
ans haste to summon Mrs Gonderthwaite the ravens beak
had pecked her. She sucked her palm greedily. I thought this
a little excessive for what must have been a scratch, but took
pleasure in it nonetheless.
The detective became suddenly animated. With a sharp
glance toward the professor and myself, he enquired of Miss
Pardoner, How came you to find... Mr Allan so?
I was in the kitchen, instructing Mrs Gonderthwaite to
prepare a broth for...
She nodded at the late reporter.
And? The policeman looked smug.

262
 EWAN LAWRIE

And the bell rang from well from this room. I bade the
cook continue preparing the soup and
She gave a poor impression of a woman about to swoon;
it was most extraordinary. Maccabi, clearly taken in, made
toward her, perhaps lest she fell. Miss Pardoner stepped back-
ward out of his reach.
Meanwhile, Constable Turner, having bumped the profes-
sor aside with a bony hip, lifted each of the departeds hands
in turn, inspecting them minutely. Without turning from the
cadaver, he said, Moffat, youre an observant fellow, with
which hand did this poor fellow write?
Left, I replied, not caring to acknowledge the compli-
ment.
I thought as much.
He turned his attention from the body and took no care of
the faecal matter beside the bed. He removed a jewellers
loupe from his pocket, screwed it into his left eye socket and
peered at the ravens head from every angle, taking great care
not to touch it.
Suddenly he leaped back, swivelled and seized Miss Par-
doners right hand. She gave a squeal of protest and the
policeman was indelicate in his treatment of her in turning it
over to examine the palm. He held it up to show the rest of
the company. It was unblemished.
You are a lucky woman, Miss Pardoner, Turner said.
How so? I asked.
The bell pull is covered in a liquid, although it has dried

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

and is now merely tacky, no doubt. I wonder whence came

the nux vomica?
He gave a meaningful look at the people in the room,
much as if he hoped to extract a confession by the power of
his glare.
Perhaps it might have worked had Mrs Gonderthwaite not
arrived and, alarmed by the crowded bedroom, thrown up
her hands in shock, causing the soup to bespatter the white
trousers of the policemans uniform. The soup must surely
have been no more than moderately hot, since the fellow gave
but one piercing scream.
Mrs Gonderthwaite left forthwith to find the accoutre-
ments to repair the mess in the late reporters chamber.
The policeman cut a comical figure, holding the stained
white material of his uniform trousers away from his private
parts, far too much the gentleman to remove them in the
presence of a lady. In the meantime, he gasped, Maccabi, I
hold you as guarantor for Miss Pardoners pledge to remain
on the premises.
As Maccabi began to bluster, I interrupted, Should that
task not fall to me, Constable?
As you like! Someone must.
He spat it out, either excited out of his phlegmatism by the
warming properties of the broth or simply by the prospect of
arresting someone, at last, for something. At this point, Mac-
cabi finally expelled something intelligible from his mouth.
You cant think... surely not...

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 EWAN LAWRIE

It was evident that constable did indeed think, and that

Maccabi knew he did.
I shall require, in that case, that Maccabi summon from
Alnwick Mrs Catchpole, wife to the turnkey of the House of
Correction, so that we may transport the miscreant to a place
of confinement.
Maccabi showed himself for a lovesick fool by seizing the
fellow by the arm and hissing into his face, It was I, I saw off
the hack!.
The policeman shook off the offending hand and, raising
an eyebrow, said to the handsome Jew, I did not take you for
any kind of herbalist, sir.
The dwarf stepped nimbly over to the policeman and beck-
oned him to lean his ear downward, the better to whisper a
confidence. I thought this uncommon rude, although the
detectives face offered as many clues as the most inept of
criminal might. The professor exclaimed, Gentlemen, lady,
follow me if you please.
We followed the scampering gnome, some less reluctantly
than others. Down the stairs, through the phantasmagoria of
furnishings in the atrium, then through the dining room and
the various bizarre collections until we reached the vivarium,
just before the library. In addition to the vitrines behind
which slithered creatures invisible in the darkness of the
room, there were rows and rows of exemplars of every kind
of plant imaginable, and some that were not. I doubt that I
would have been able to identify even the tenth part of their
varieties, had I been wont to try.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

In addition to being dark, the room was uncomfortably

warm, as alien as the tropic forests of Martinique and, per-
haps, as sinister. The horticultural specimens stood atop long
benches, the edge of whose surfaces were of a height with the
professors eyebrows. The benches were more than a cloth-
yard deep, and at the very back I could see a space dedicated
to the most exotic of the orchidae, their colours fighting val-
iantly against the general gloom. The dwarf reached under
the bench and withdrew a rough stool, the like of which, in
a more conventional household, might conceivably have been
used for milking a cow. The professor skipped nimbly atop it
and made a deep and mocking bow. Gentlemen, lady, before
your squinting eyes our very own Jedediah will pluck the fruit
of the Strychnos nux vomica and save the fair maiden from
durance vile.
The little man grinned and snickered and for the first time
I felt some semblance of fellow feeling for him, both of us
knowing that for all Maccabis prodigious knowledge of the
local avian riches, his botanical expertise was such that he
could provide no answer that would incriminate himself.
Maccabi turned listlessly to the bench and grasped a plant
without looking at it. He gave quite a start when the Dionaea
muscipula trapped him as surely as Venus herself had invei-
gled his confession. The dwarf looked at Constable Turner
and gave a vigorous shake of the head.
Well, miss, your gallant has failed you, the policeman
said.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

It does not follow that Miss Pardoner is responsible,

Turner, I said.
I know that none of these plants is Strychnos nux vomica,
for it is, in fact, a tree. Do you now propose my arrest? Cer-
tainly the professor would know the tree itself and perhaps
where, in this lunatic house, one might find it. I awaited
answer from the policeman.
He said nothing. I added, Perhaps we might consider more
than means and opportunity. You said it yourself, there are
few motiveless crimes.
It was some surprise to me that I had unwittingly absorbed
so much of the policemans earlier lecture on the science of
detection. It occurred to me also that the man might have
wished that he had not proselytised quite so much on behalf
of his new religion. Miss Pardoner, who had hitherto been
most surprisingly mute, enquired, Motive? Means? Oppor-
tunity? What have these to do with such hideous crimes?
I feared a further tiresome exposition from Constable
Turner, but we were saved by the intervention of a no less
tiresome, if more diminutive, didact: the professor.
I shall explain. A fascinating subject, detection.
He looked around, as if for applause. Maccabi appeared
quite distracted, staring fixedly at a point on Miss Pardoners
bosom. Turner had a bemused look: I supposed him amazed
at finding a conversationalist more boring than himself.
Miss Pardoner seemed about to interrupt the great man,
but he finally deigned to answer her question, after a fashion.
Imagine, dear Ellen, that you have robbed me of a valuable

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

repeater watch. Later you are found dead, strangled it

might be with a scarf, perhaps yellow in a side-street in
Newcastle.
With this the mountebank produced, with a theatrical
flourish, one such scarf from an inner pocket. He winked
at me.
So, let us say I have motive: viz the watch. I have means:
exemplum a supply of scarves, of an unusual colour I admit.
But opportunity? Why, I was here all the time. Alibi is the best
defence against such accusations. Suppose I had been in New-
castle? Suppose I owned such a scarf as was found begging
your pardon, Ellen around your graceful neck? What motive
would I have to snuff out the life of such a beautiful creature
as yourself? Besides, I have a new and different watch.
The dwarf gave a leer worthy of an escaped convict in a
molly house. Miss Pardoner looked to be biting the inside of
her cheek, whether in an effort to prevent a blush or a laugh,
I was not sure. I, however, was neither embarrassed nor
amused, being preoccupied with the professors glaring hints
to me about my activities in Newcastle.
Professor Jedermanns lecture was not yet finished. So, in
dealing with a civilised and logical mind, one would presup-
pose opportunity, means and motive, before one might
suppose the guilt of persons accused.
I could not resist. And the mind of a lunatic? What
would that presuppose? Especially if the lunatic were a mur-
derer?

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Maccabi, and most surprisingly Miss Pardoner began to

speak at once, before manners prevailed and Ellen spoke at
an unaccustomed pitch, But that means it could be anyone.
Maccabi, the professor, the servants. Anyone!
She did not point at me, but the omission of my name did
not prevent Maccabi from doing so.
The policeman held up a large and calloused hand, palm
out. He shouted, with some distemper, Enough.
The effect was rather spoiled by the after effects of his
sudden encounter with the soup, and the manner in which
these caused him to bend at the waist to evade the touch of
the wet cloth of his trousers. Still, it was enough to ensure the
professor did not proceed to regale us with a history of the
study of the mind from Aristotles De Anima to the work of
some modern academic whom he had no doubt met in
Leipzig twenty years before.
The reporters room will be sealed until the arrival of the
coroner from Alnwick. You, Moffat!
I made an obsequy, but the fellow was far too self-ab-
sorbed to note the irony.
At your service, Constable.
Is there no one here to be trusted to fetch the coroner?
he asked.
I think we might send Cullis and even expect a return
before sunrise, I replied.
A letter. Might I have the necessary, Mr Moffat?
Certainly, let us all repair to the relative comfort of
the library.

269
 Chapter Thirty-two

The company of five clustered around an escritoire of white

wood. The professor had had to move aside some impres-
sively heavy, if unspeakably filthy, damask drapery to reveal
the beautiful piece standing between two of the high-arched
windows in the right-hand wall. I fancied I had seen some-
thing similar at the Great Exhibition some years ago. It was
most definitely a ladys escritoire, intricately carved with
rustic figures, harts, hinds, hares and bucolics idling in leafy
bowers; a less indolent cowherd led four cows and a calf
along the carved wooden back plate. The white wood had
yellowed with age; a shepherd and shepherdess reclined at
each side of the writing surface, mooning at each other whilst
serving as truss and bracket between the desk and the back
plate. Neither nib nor knife had made so much as a scratch
on the pristine writing surface, nor had any stray gobbet of
ink stained the wood.
The professor pressed the centre of an exquisite rose that
formed the centrepiece of a panel above the cattle and their
keeper. The cattle and cowherd shot forward, revealing a

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 EWAN LAURIE

drawer constrained by spring and lever. The professor stood

on the tips of the toes on his tiny feet and withdrew a single
sheet of vellum, a ball of wax, a pen and inkwell. He laid the
items on the writing surface.
We are not so modern here as the late Mr Allan, and can
offer no miracles of contemporary calligraphy. Please, Con-
stable, wait here while I fetch you a chair.
The diminutive professor was as good as his word, although
it cost him much barking of shins on the ornate legs of a chair
that, quite literally, dwarfed him. He was not helped in his
endeavours by the heavy ormolu-mounted candlestick that
teetered on the rich, if tattered, fabric of the chairs seat. The
candlestick was after the style of Caffieri and was as emetically
rococo in style as to have come from the hand of the master
himself. The midget, still huffing, placed the candlestick on the
bureau and motioned the detective toward the chair.
Constable Turner did not demur before the interested gaze
of the rest of our company, perhaps he was proud of the
careful and elegant handwriting I observed from behind his
left shoulder. The note was succinct.

Hepplewhite,
A matter for the Coroner is here at hand at Gibbous
House. Accompany the bearer of this missive, Cullis.
Constable Turner

He signed it with a flourish and finally removed his tongue to

the confines of his mouth once more. He sealed the sheet

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

using only the sealing wax, after warming it over one of the
candles in the over-decorative stick. I reached for the letter,
but Maccabi seized it before me and dashed away in search
of Cullis.
Miss Pardoner, Mr Moffat, Constable. Let us be seated in
comfort. I shall pour us some refreshment.
Those two followed the little man. I lingered a moment by
the beautiful white-wood writing desk. I pressed the exquisite
rose centrepiece, just for the pleasure of seeing the secret
compartment spring open once more. A small packet of oil-
skin, about the size of a snuff box, lay in one corner. I turned
my back to the room the better to hide it from the others.
The oilskin was not secured, merely wrapped around a
small resinous block of a familiar brown substance. Perhaps
the writing desk had spent some time in the notarys office in
Seahouses. I pocketed the opium and pushed the compart-
ment shut. Turning to the room, I bellowed at the professor,
For pitys sake, Enoch, just a good oporto, and none of that
damnable green filth!
He almost dropped the absinthe but could not save the
sugar; the cube skittered across the floor to disappear under
Miss Pardoners chair. Placing the bottle on the long board,
he scuttled to the chair and burrowed under Miss Pardoners
skirts to recover it. That young woman remained in a state of
remarkable equanimity throughout the performance. Her
own raised eyebrow answered mine in reciprocal fashion.
The professor, the sugar cube now in his mouth, retired to
the lowest of the chairs in the room, an expression somewhere

272
 EWAN LAURIE

between a leer and the beatific smile of a saint. He let out a

contented sigh. Miss Pardoner, if you please, some music.
She arose without reply and strode to the far corner of the
room. Seated before a piano, she looked over her shoulder
and said, Mr Moffat, would you be so kind? She pointed at
the music on the stand before her. Naturally, I was delighted
to be so.
It was an old-fashioned instrument, with none of the inno-
vations of Erard or Babcock. A vile green in colour in the
main, it featured gilt-scalloping on the edges. The keys were
an inversion of the modern custom, the natural being black
and the accidental white.
Ellen Pardoner gave a laugh. A Viennese school piano, Mr
Moffat. A Stein Klavier. Who knows, perhaps Mozart himself
played on this very one?
Perhaps, I said.
I looked at the proliferation of black markings on the
pages before her: they were as meaningless to me as the
strange alphabets the professor was so proud of knowing.
What will you play? I asked her.
Why Mozart, of course.
She began to play. It was both beautiful and sad.
I turned the pages and noted the occasional crabbed note
in the margin, often monogrammed with a floridly cursive M.
The music finished. The professors and the policemans
applause was augmented by that of Maccabi, who must have
entered during the entertainment. I asked my ward in a whis-
per, What was it?

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Her answer was abruptly drowned by the professors

excited yelp: Frulein Pardoner, sollen wir nicht singen?
Oh fie, Professor, not again!
Fie indeed, I thought. Miss Pardoner was uncommon fond
of romances, it seemed.
Maccabi and the dwarf were now positioned on the
French-window side of the hideous piano, as excited as boys
at keyholes. The professors chest was as puffed out as that
of any pouter pigeon. I believed I saw the slightest upward
turn of Jedediahs mouth, as if he were the elder indulging an
excitable youth.
Ach ja! Play it! Play it! Mozarts finest!
Miss Pardoner began to play, accompanying her own
pleasant contralto, the professors reedy tenor and Maccabis
manly baritone. The policeman looked on as stoically as
might have been expected. It was a round or a canon, if you
will. My grasp of the German language was sufficient to dis-
cern the title as being Leck mich im Arsch. It was not hard
to imagine Mozart issuing such an invitation: there were
rumours that he told Archbishop Colloredo to kiss my arse
more than once.
We repaired once more to chairs near the vast fireplace.
The professor poured us each a glass of jerez and rang the
cracked bell.
Do you carry that with you everywhere, man? I asked.
As you saw, some of the bell pulls have been, he pon-
dered his next words for a moment or two, adapted to
better purpose.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

I find it nothing short of miraculous that anyone answers

the summons of so unsound a chime, much less so distracted
a soul as Mrs Gonderthwaite. The woman cannot possibly
hear the summons, wherever she might be, I posited, looking
the mannikin squarely in the eye.
Well, you are aware of the nature of sound, surely, Mr
Moffat? As Galileo said, Waves are produced by the vibra-
tions of a sonorous body, which spread through the air,
bringing to the tympanum of the ear a stimulus which the
mind interprets as sound.
My heart sank at the prospect of another lecture from the
academic homunculus.
The frequencies of such vibrations may be measured, you
will allow, Mr Moffat?
I nodded wearily.
There are those who believe that animals hear more fre-
quencies than do we, did you know that, Mr Moffat?
Any fool knows that, Professor, enjoined Maccabi. We do
not hear the half of birdsong, and how beautiful it would be
to hear the entire canon.
The fellow wore a simpering look worthy of a heroine of
a sensationalist novel.
The professor sounded displeased at the interruption:
Quite so. Although we do not hear them, it is said that
sounds of low frequency may cause feelings of awe and fear
in humankind. In my examinations of Mrs Gonderthwaite, I
have noticed a peculiar sensitivity to audible low frequency
sounds. I persist with this bell as part of my ongoing research.

275
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

He appeared on the point of clacking the cracked bell once

more when Mrs Gonderthwaite entered the library. Perhaps
she had heard some sound inaudible to the rest of us. I felt
the woman appeared according to her own whim, rather in
the manner of the faery folk. She addressed the professor but
looked at me. If there is nothing further, I should like to
retire, sir.
The policeman answered by means of a question. I trust
the room is sealed?
The woman replied that it was indeed.
In that case, Turner went on, I see no reason to keep any
of you from your beds. I shall wait here for the coroner.
I looked at the watch: it was past eleven. I stood to allow
Miss Pardoner to take her leave and resolved to follow after
a polite interval. Maccabi followed her, whilst the professor
lingered as if wishing to share some confidence, but finally he
left after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. I made to
leave. Turner held me back with his arm, fixing a cold gaze
on me.
Be careful, Moffat. There is more at work here than you
can know. You would do well to leave Gibbous House this
very evening.
I scoffed at his presumption, and brushed his arm away.
You would do well to remember that I am master of this
house, Constable.
Allan was not a man to keep his own counsel, Moffat. I
have heard much of your... abilities. They will not be enough.
You play into their hands, sir.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Whose hands? I laughed. Do you not think I am a match

for an ageing dwarf, a slip of a girl and that dolt Maccabi?
The mans spittle dampened my cheek. Curse your arro-
gance, you fool. There is more at work here than you can
know. Mark my words, Moffat, leave while you still can.
I left him in his chair.

277
 Chapter Thirty-three

I was awakened by Mrs Gonderthwaite in the darkest hours.

She wore a nightshirt thank the lord but the light of the
moon through the window offered an unwanted glimpse of
her figures silhouette. She bore a seven-branched candela-
brum aloft and informed me that the coroner had arrived. She
led me below, floating before me like a phantasm from some
tale of the imagination.
I followed her to the library, where Hepplewhite awaited.
Of the policeman, however, there was no sign.
The coroner, though not tall, was rendered less so by a
marked stoop. It was all I could do to look him in the eye, in
fact. His dress was uncommon shabby, with altogether too
much grubby linen emerging from his coat sleeve, and his
boots had long been strangers to any kind of blacking. I
adjudged him a man of about sixty years, although his move-
ment seemed vigorous still. Pince-nez adorned his handsome
nose, and his hand flicked rapidly and often at the tattered
black ribbon hanging from their side. He held out a surpris-

278
 EWAN LAWRIE

ingly calloused hand, and I surmised he was a country doctor

rather than any rarified medical specimen.
Hepplewhite, he barked.
Moffat, I returned.
Where is the cadaver? He fiddled with the filthy ribbon.
It remains undisturbed, where the fellow drew his last.
I waited for him to ask the whereabouts of the policeman,
but he did not. The man merely looked up at me expectantly.
Signalling Mrs Gonderthwaite that she was to light our way,
we made our way to Edgar Allans room.
The skeletal housekeeper selected the appropriate key
from a bunch with no hesitation, although I could see noth-
ing especial to mark it out from the others. The lock opened
smoothly, as though it had received frequent and thorough
oilings. Carrying the candlestick before her, she led us to the
bedside. Even in the dim light of the candle, poor Allans
rictus remained as alarming as before. His limbs and body
had stiffened in the pose occasioned by the violent spasms
preceding his demise.
Hepplewhite grunted and poked at the corpse with a bony
finger. Beckoning Mrs Gonderthwaite with the same, he
moved around the bed to look at the body from the other side.
A drinker, Mr Moffat? he asked.
No more than some.
Hah, and more than others Ill be bound! The bony finger
peeled back a lifeless eyelid and he nodded.
An apoplexy, no doubt. Had he, a pause and a look to
either side, means?

279
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

The physician imbued the words with a lubricity such as a

Cheapside whore might save for a drunken earl.
I havent the slightest notion, Doctor. Why do you ask?
Arrangements, dear fellow. We shall have to make
arrangements.
It seemed to me that the man had no more interest in the
cause of Allans expiry than in the Eastern Question; perhaps
that was why the policemans absence had thus far remained
unmentioned by him.
Constable Turner believed that there were some suspi-
cious aspects in the matter, I began diffidently.
Nonsense! the man bellowed upward. If that were the
case, why then is the numbskull not here?
With that the quacksalver thumbed his waistcoat pockets
and jutted his jaw up at me as if daring me to gainsay him.
And it was true that I could not.
We repaired once more to the library, and I dismissed Mrs
Gonderthwaite to whatever nocturnal pursuits she enjoyed.
Despite the early hour, the coroner was looking wistfully at
the sideboard with its variety of libations fair and foul.
My watch showed that it was yet four of the morning. I
looked vainly for the absinthe; perhaps the professor had
taken it to his private apartments. I dearly hoped so. For
spite, I poured the coroner a measure of the professors foul
bitters. I took a glass of jerez out of courtesy.
So, Dr Hepplewhite. What now? I enquired.
We must expedite the burial, Moffat. We could learn
much from the customs of others.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

You know so much about them? I find that strange.

The mans face coloured. I buried Septimus Coble!
I may have affronted his dignity, but I believed his blushes
to be more indicative of a lie. The interruption of the profes-
sor prevented me from pursuing the matter. Ah, I think we
may relieve your concern in such matters.
Hepplewhite looked at him in dismay, sensing a rapidly
disappearing opportunity.
Ah... hem... My fee, at least.
The professor smiled. It was not pleasant, merely a stretch-
ing of lips to expose the teeth such an avid consumer of green
spirit deserved.
Oh no, Hepplewhite. You will receive both your fee and
such monies as you would normally disburse on the disposal
of a gentleman without family or means.
Lets have a drink on it, said the coroner, and he held out
his empty glass toward me.
I filled his glass and addressed the professor. Ah, it is my
belief that the law is quite strict on the disposal and interment
of human remains, Professor. I hope no law will be broken
under my roof?
He laughed. Moffat, what do you take me for? Besides,
the Anatomy Act has long since become law in your wonder-
ful country. He looked nervously to the walls of books.
I had followed the progress of the Anatomy Act of 1832
into law, with the interest of a professional, one might say,
regretting the profitable business to which its passing had put
an end shortly after my arrival in London in 183_.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

I doubt you are a licensed anatomist, Jedermann, I said.

It matters not, I have a paper in Allans own hand contain-
ing instructions for the disposal of his body, in the event of
his death.
He offered me a tattered piece of vellum. I did not take it
from him, but viewed the contents from where I stood. The
spidery script looked similar to the hand I had seen in the
notebook belonging to the reporter. It had not been written
with his beloved fountain pen, however. The professor thrust
the paper at the coroner, who barely looked at it before stuff-
ing it in a pocket.
Splendid, he said. Everything seems to be in order. If I
might trouble you for the sum of twenty guineas?
I turned my back on the both of them.

282
 Chapter Thirty-four

From the vantage point of an armchair as tired-looking as I

undoubtedly was, I watched the dwarf and his confederate,
heads close, hugger-mugger, whispering at the other end of
the room. The subject of their susurrations was undiscernible
by me and I confess I did not care.
Truly, I felt a stifling lethargy in the vast and rambling
house that I had never felt in the attic rooms of Cheapside. It
was an effort to keep track of the clock and calendar under
the weight of the grotesquery encountered at every turn. To
be sure, meals arrived more or less as expected, at least with
regard to the time and place, if not in their manner. Never-
theless, it seemed to me that I had been at Gibbous House for
a lifetime and not a matter of days. Perhaps the demise of
Allan would have put me in better countenance if I myself
had had a hand in it. I wondered which of them had truly
committed the crime. The servants? Not without instruction
to do so. Ellen? I could not decide whether I hoped it were so
or not. Maccabi? No, I felt there was a hollow at the heart of
him, some scruple that would have prevented him taking a

283
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

life. Unless, of course, Miss Pardoner asked him to do so. The

Professor? Much more likely, but why?
Beyond the French windows the mulberry dawn stained the
sky. My brown study had lasted more than an hour. Perhaps
I had slept. Perhaps the ennui had overcome my senses. There
was something I needed; it would not have been wise to seek
it within the grounds of Gibbous House. Not a second time.
In the full light of day the coroner left, surprisingly without
breaking his fast. Cullis, stoic and mute, handed the him up
into the drivers post of his own chaise, which was in no
better condition than the horse in its traces. I enjoined the
professor to accompany me to the dining room. He clacked
his broken bell, honoured me with a malicious grin and we
awaited the insubstantial Mrs Gonderthwaite.
The dwarf, from the perch fashioned by the box balanced
on his chair, cocked his head at me and raised an eyebrow.
So, Mr Moffat, I have work, the Collection. What are we to
do with you?
The goblin seemed set on provocation, but I would not
give him the satisfaction.
I am master of quite a considerable estate, am I not? I
should think that would be quite sufficient employment for a
gentleman, I said.
We will pass gently over the matter of gentry, Mr Moffat.
However, did you not understand the terms of the legacy?
You can sell nothing!
The mouth offered another variation on a smile no less
mirthless than the earlier grin.

284
 EWAN LAWRIE

Nothing? What about the inn? At Seahouses?

He squirmed atop his ludicrous seating arrangement.
Ah, the mute... John Bill...
Such papers as I had read insisted only on the giants being
kept in employment and I told him so, before continuing, In
addition, I could not find the inn entailed as part of the Col-
lection nor the property of the estate. I have need of the
fellow here, I think. What I do not require is the ownership
of a fishermans tavern.
Ah, very well. You may be right. I will check the appropri-
ate papers. The pitch of his voice rose.
You will not, I said.
Perhaps he cursed himself for allowing me to interpret it
as a question. Whatever the case might have been, I felt a little
uneasy at his unexpected capitulation and sure that he was
hiding something else.
The dining table was in some disarray post the cavalcade
that the serving of breakfast entailed in Gibbous House. As
usual, the fare had been unaccountably fine from kidney to
kipper. Equally fine at that moment, to my eye, was the figure
of Miss Pardoner, hindered though it was by her own unfor-
tunate eye for colour. This same orbis ocularis caught my own.
Well, Mr Moffat, it is a fine day: I imagine you will be
busy, she said I am informed by the good professor that I am
completely at liberty, free from obligation or duty.
Perhaps you have some vigorous and manly activity in
mind for your unexpected leisure?

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Maccabi, opposite me, gave the young lady a look of warn-

ing or murderous intent. Perhaps of both.
I rather thought we might take a trip to Alnwick, you
and I.
It was most satisfying to receive a similar look from Jede-
diah Maccabi for my pains. More pleasure still accrued in the
issue of instruction to prepare whatever carriage and beast
might conceivably manage the twenty or so miles without
mishap on the part of one and expiry on the part of the other.
My faithful retainer left the table with commendable alacrity,
evinced by the shattering of his glass as his coat-tail knocked
it to the floor.
The professor was blessedly silent. Perhaps I had bettered
the midget at last.
Well, Miss Pardoner, if you would be so good as to pre-
pare yourself for the chaise, I shall await you afront the
house, in a quarter-hour, shall we say? I said.
Her eyebrows quite reached the fringes of hair that
reflected her disregard for the finer points of cosmetology.
I am as ready to depart as yourself, Mr Moffat. We might
await the carriage together outside. She smirked.
It is indeed a fine day, I allowed.
I turned to bid the professor adieu, but he was rapt, carv-
ing something in the fine, if scarred, wood of the table.
Peering at it closely, it was revealed as pure nonsense:

x -1 if p 1.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

The dwarf looked up, knife pointing at my heart. Then he

drew the knife twice across the equation in a savage cross
of negation.

Miss Pardoners complexion suited the late-spring sunshine.

She seemed to lift her face toward it as though she were some
exotic tropical bloom. Cullis was holding the reins on the
chaise when it limped around the corner. He drew the light
carriage to a halt and leaped down, surprisingly nimbly. Lift-
ing a hand to where a forelock might once have been, he
turned on his heel, taking care to spit as he did so.
I handed my ward up to the seat. It was gratifying that a
chaise had turned out to be available. Miss Pardoner and I sat
uncommon close, for the carriage seated only two and those
of long acquaintance. Being on the point of laying on with
the switch in an effort to persuade the cadaverous jade to
effect our forward momentum, I was somewhat surprised,
and not a little pleased, to feel the young ladys hand on my
thigh.
Please, Mr Moffat, let us take a turn around the outside
of the house. The track is reasonably kept.
My face must have betrayed some emotion, for she contin-
ued, Fie! Mr Moffat, I shall not eat you, I wish merely to
point out something about the house that you may have
omitted to remark.
Ellen Pardoner removed her hand, but a playful smile lin-
gered on her face. I persuaded the nag to movement and the

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

tiny chaise set out along the track in circumnavigation of the

house. My attention and efforts were concentrated, I confess,
solely on keeping the miserable specimen in motion. The
young woman again laid her hand on me. Stop, Mr Moffat.
You should look.
She held a long arm outstretched toward the house, finger
pointed at one of the towers of the east wing. In common
with every aspect of Gibbous House, the cloister between the
towers of the wing did not run true. Not only the three
towers of the east, but also the four spires of the west wing
were visible from our vantage point on the track.
Do you but count them, sir, and be mindful of their
number.
Perhaps I gave the horse a harder tickle than it deserved,
but thankfully it moved forward at a quicker pace. She had
not finished.
And count the entrances to your fortress, sir.
I had counted twelve by the end, when I drew the chaise
to a halt before the main entrance to the house.
She looked intently at me, saying nothing.
I toyed with suggesting that this could be our fortress, but
impatience moved me. Miss Pardoner, I should like to be on
our way, I began.
Seven and twelve, Mr Moffat, imagine! Would it surprise
you greatly to discover that there are fifty-two windows and
that they contain in sum three hundred and sixty-five sepa-
rate panes of glass?
My dear young lady, it would not surprise me if this house

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 EWAN LAWRIE

had a bell tower and hippopotami in the mansard roof. Now

may we at last depart?
Her lip protruded somewhat. Gibbous House is a Calen-
dar House, Mr Moffat. A rare thing. There is power in
numbers.
A Calendar House? What is... ?
Then I remembered the seven towers or spires, twelve
entrances and the fifty-two windows with their three hundred
and sixty-five panes of glass.
I see, according to the days of the week, months of the
year, weeks in the year and so on? What is the point of that?
I ignored Miss Pardoners knowing smirk and persuaded
the bag of bones to forward momentum once again.

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 Chapter Thirty-five

The ride to Alnwick passed in relative silence, and, pity

though it was, Miss Pardoners hand made no more assaults
on my dignity. I drew the chaise to a halt in front of the Old
Cross Inn in Narrowgate, and handed her down.
Some luncheon is in order, I think, I said.
She brightened a little at the prospect and I received as
close an approximation of a simpering smile as her strong
features would allow.
Robson being in attendance, I wasted no time in instruct-
ing him to find livery for the chaise and its attendant beast.
He in turn despatched a lout possessed of a low forehead the
equal of his own.
What delights has your dear mother available today,
Robson? I enquired.
Muthas deed, he replied.
I am so sorry to hear it, Robson. Was it sudden?
He laughed, offering an unpleasant view of his gappy
teeth.
Ay it was, fowerty yeeahz gone.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

I remembered how little I had understood the fellow on first

meeting him and enquired merely after the available vittles.
They proved more than adequate: a vast game pie and a
brace of pigeon washed down with ale. Miss Pardoner
savoured her own with a smacking of the lips that I found
less than genteel, but all the more stimulating for being so.
Robson cleared the dishes, letting only a few pie crumbs
sully our apparel. Miss Pardoner again tested the boundaries
of decorum by sprawling somewhat in her chair and ask-
ing, So, Mr Moffat, what diversion is planned for our visit
to Alnwick?
My purpose here, Ellen, is twofold. I plan to hurry Mac-
cabis Jewish tailor along in the matter of my wardrobe.
I took a draught of beer and the womans impatience got
the better of her. And the second?
We are in need of more staff at the house, no matter what
the professor says, I replied.
She laughed. I do not think any person would be so des-
perate as to seek employment in Gibbous House, Mr Moffat.
We shall see, Ellen. Our second port of call is the Aln-
wick Gaol.
The young woman betrayed no great discomposure at this
intelligence. No doubt the tic in her left eyelid was occasioned
by the somewhat ftid atmosphere in the inn.
I paid Robson with the last of my dwindling funds. The
weather being as clement as before, my ward and I walked
arm in arm along Narrowgate through the Market Square
and along Bondgate until we reached a mean bow-windowed

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

shop next to the Globe Inn, immediately before the Hotspur

Tower itself. The weathered sign hanging over the door read
E. Salomons, Gentlemans Tailor.
As Miss Pardoner crossed the threshold, a minuscule bell
tinkled absurdly, with little hope of overcoming the racket of
the machine behind which the eponymous stitcher was toil-
ing. My ward looked around the cramped shop, her curiosity
clearly aroused by the inordinate number of military uni-
forms hanging from rails and piled in heaps wherever the
furniture allowed it.
The tunics were the madder red of Her Majestys proud
regiments of foot. Miss Pardoners clumsy inspection of one
engendered the toppling of a particularly towering heap.
Salomons gave a start such as might have been deemed an
apoplexy had it but lasted a few moments longer.
Gai kukken afen yam, he said, once he had calmed him-
self.
We are a little far from the sea for that, Mr Salomons,
I replied.
Once again I felt grateful for the education in matters
Semitic that my late wife Arabella had afforded me, it being
most pleasing to inform the tailor that I would not be accept-
ing his invitation to void my bowels into Neptunes kingdom.
Gesturing at the heaps of tunics, I asked him, A strange
place to be sewing uniforms for the British Army, is it
not, Salomons?
A man would not get rich making fine clothes in Nor-
thumberland.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Miss Pardoner was now holding a tunic to her torso and

admiring herself in a mirror.
I addressed the tailor, Now, you know me, sir. My clothes;
are there items ready for use?
I leaned over the rough table that struggled to bear the
weight of his machine. He shrank a little, licked dry lips and
croaked, One or two, if... if... you would go to the garder-
obe. He gestured at a curtained-booth to the rear.
It was cramped. I saw no reason to discomfort myself fur-
ther by drawing the curtain. I removed Maccabis boots,
trousers and topcoat and let them fall to the floor. Miss Par-
doner, more the pity, continued to preen in the mirror.
Salomons brought me an armful of clothing. The quality of
work was surprisingly good: the nap of the material was
exquisite to the touch, and the fit, if not perfect, showed my
figure to good advantage, at least judging by Miss Pardoners
sudden loss of interest in the looking-glass.
These clothes are acceptable, Mr Salomons. My words
brought him up sharp. I should like to wear these; would you
parcel whatever else is ready?
He began nodding and hopping from foot to foot, and set
about packing the clothing. Presently, he handed me a parcel
of easily manageable size had the chaise been larger. No
matter, it would improve the upholstery for our return to
Gibbous House.
The hopping did not stop, and I wondered if there were
some peculiar quality to the flags of the shops floor. In the
event it was not so: the tailor was merely summoning the

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

courage to ask for payment. I left him my promissory note,

which he was foolish enough to accept.
Maccabis finest apparel still lay on the floor of the booth
and I felt a fair exchange was no robbery.
The chaise stood in front of the window containing the
infamous dirty bottles, proving that Robson was capable of
fulfilling a simple instruction. The state of the vehicle itself
indicated that the liverymen were not. It was so filthy that it
was quite conceivable that the fellow with the low forehead
doubtless some relation of the landlord had merely driven
the chaise to the nearest common land and left it unattended.
Still, a polished carriage was hardly required to visit a gaol.
The horse made incremental progress uphill on St
Michaels Lane to Green Batt; Miss Pardoner kindly pointed
out the location of the Alnwick Scientific and Mechanical
Institute, informing me that the professor had been known to
lecture there in the past. I turned our carriage up Percy Ter-
race and we drew to a halt after about a furlong. To our left
was a grimly grimy building constructed in the ubiquitous
sandstone. It was small, but looked secure.
I looked to Miss Pardoner. She was plucking at her lower
lip with a gloved thumb and forefinger, and remained dis-
tracted the while I helped her to the ground.
It seemed a building of no great antiquity, despite the
grime. A utilitarian cube, it looked exactly what it was: a
place of refuse, a gaol in a provincial town. There was little
evidence of adherence to the precepts of the late Bentham, a

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 EWAN LAWRIE

fact that I remarked upon to Miss Pardoner. Her reply was

succinct.
So advanced a thinkers theories are scarcely likely to have
been adopted here.
I reflected that she might have held some affection for his
outlandish theories concerning the equality of the sexes.

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 Chapter Thirty-six

The entrance did, in fact, boast something so sophisticated as

a bell pull. It was hardly a surprise to see that for decoration
the handle bore a facsimile of a lion. I grunted with the exer-
tion required to operate the mechanism, and Miss Pardoner
covered her mouth with a hand.
The summons was not answered with any particular
promptness and I was grateful that the weather was clement.
The nag seemed quite content to shuffle its hooves and
remain contemplative in its traces: I didnt doubt it was far
too lazy to walk a yard or two, much less bolt.
In the due course of time the sturdy door swung wide and
a lugubrious visage appeared atop a giant of painfully thin
figure. Such were his dimensions that his head seemed enor-
mous by comparison. His etiolated complexion was not
improved by a cast of features that suggested only the most
esurient of characters. He held out a grasping hand.
Pleased to meet you, Mr Moffat.
I took his hand, saying, You have the advantage of me, sir.
Gideon Catchpole, at your service.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

His voice was as sickly sweet as laudanum and would

undoubtedly have been as soporific if suffered at length. He
turned to Miss Pardoner and took her hand in both of his.
Ellen, it is so long since you have come to succour the
unfortunates.
A certain glee surfaced through the laudanum as he uttered
the word unfortunates, and I thought any guest of Mr
Catchpoles establishment might indeed consider themselves
unfortunate. I resisted any temptation to ask how the man
had guessed my own identity and hoped that it irked him that
I did so.
So, Catchpole, are you gaoler, turnkey or some other func-
tionary here?
There was no sign of outrage at the insult, save a slight
stiffening of his pitiful body, whereupon he said, None of
these, least of all gaoler, Mr Moffat, since my establishment
is not a gaol, but the Alnwick House of Correction.
It was a petty thing, but neither did I give him opportunity
to inform me of his station, and merely enquired whether
Miss Pardoner and I might have a tour of the building. He
led us inside; it was as dark and damp as a cave and this,
perhaps, accounted for Catchpoles invalid colouring.
The accommodations lined the outer wall of the building.
Each heavy, iron-bound door was shut and would have
opened onto a large stone-flagged area seemingly dedicated
to Mr Catchpoles comfort whilst at his post. A comfort-
able-looking winged chair was too far from the large desk in
the centre of the room to encourage much endeavour.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

On the other side of the chair a sandstone column rose to

the rafters. It was decorated with sundry rings, which in turn
were festooned with chains and manacles various. A filthy boy
in scarcely less filthy rags cowered at the foot of the column.
The cells seemed unlikely to allow more than the rudest of
cots within and numbered some thirty. There was a further
door to the exterior in the rear wall between two of these tiny
rooms. Catchpoles fiefdom was the Model Asylum writ
exceedingly small, and I had to strain hard not to shudder at
the sight of it.
Tea! he bellowed, but we were hard put to discern the
word, for the cacophony that had erupted on the inmates
realisation that someone had entered the House of Correc-
tion was injurious to the ear. It truly was like a Bedlamite
hospice, and far worse than any gaol I had had occasion to
visit in the past.
Miss Pardoner and I nodded our assent, since to speak was
futile. Catchpole despatched the boy with a kick: he scuttled
on all fours to the door at the rear. He left it banging in the
breeze, but I was glad of the little light it allowed into the
dingy place. Catchpole picked up a large staff bound with
iron. It was like a beadles staff, but appeared less suited to
ceremonial than to brutal functioning.
Which theory was short in the proving, as he hammered
the head with menace on the first cell door. He himself said
nothing, but the sound was greeted with shrieks and shouts
of The Warden, before a silence less comfortable than the
earlier pandemonium descended.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Catchpole spoke, his right hand stroking the staff all the
while. While we await the tea, Mr Moffat, what is your busi-
ness here?
I require a menial, possibly two, for service at Gibbous
House, I replied.
How can I provide these? All are here for expiation of
crimes, he sneered.
Not so, Catchpole, surely you have a trollop or indigent
that may be released on my parole? I looked him keenly in
the eye and the hand stopped its movement on the staff.
But, sir, my stipend is dependent on the number of guests
I entertain.
The soporific voice betrayed just enough avarice to leave
me in no doubt as to his meaning.
It was evident what he was; the cringing boy had been
proof enough of that, without considering the behaviour of
the inmates. I cared not for their fate at this mans hands, but
I grabbed his throat, knocking the staff aside.
Know me, Catchpole, for one who would have you as that
boy, on all fours, a cringing, whimpering dog.
Really, I did require some release of passion soon. I had
meant only to terrify the skinny wretch, but still knew it
would have given me a great deal of pleasure to encounter
him in the dark of night. Of course he followed my argument
beautifully, replying, Yes, of course, sir, would you like the
tour?
I released him, and he continued to babble. Damn that
boy! Where is the tea?

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Miss Pardoner drew up beside me, and I felt her hand

brush against mine. My manner of persuasion must have
affected her, as she was fully flushed. There was more to this
woman than I had previously thought, or I was very much
mistaken.
Catchpole moved to open the door that he had earlier
belaboured with the staff. The cells were as cramped as they
appeared from the exterior. This one had no cot, only straw;
a figure, apparently female, lay atop it surrounded by a litter
of infants of whom the eldest might have been five. Catchpole
waved his staff, the children shrieked and the woman shrank
into the corner.
Thief, three penny loaves at the Shrove Tuesday market.
He slammed the door. The next cubicle contained a male.
He seemed catatonic, his hair must have passed the scapulae
and he sported a beard of like proportions.
Horse thief, gypsy, does not speak. Does not move. I check
him from time to time.
He is newly here, I think, Miss Pardoner said. Less than
a trimester.
You are correct. I have never seen him eat or drink,
although he must, else hed be dead. He sounded disap-
pointed.
The next door revealed a young woman of about Miss
Pardoners age. She herself had turned away from the sight.
She was chained about the waist and wrists. It was easy to
see why; she still bore the marks of the damage she had ear-
lier inflicted upon herself.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Murderess, awaiting trial. Drowned her own in the

Coquet. He slammed the door with some vigour.
The third door revealed a columnar recess; a woman of
about thirty sprang out to the length of her own chain as we
all leaped back as one. She screamed a name.
It was the most surprising thing about our visit, not least
because there was no one present by the name: Jedediah!
Catchpole employed his staff of office to encourage Jill to
return to her box. I raised an eyebrow at Miss Pardoner, who
shook her head. I took this to mean we would not yet discuss
the coincidence. I tugged at the fellows sleeve; his shoulders,
such as they were, heaved after the exertion of returning his
captive to her rightful place.
Catchpole, I want some harmless trollop and a strong-
backed dolt; kindly show me someone suitable. We are not
here to marvel at curiosities.
The boy arrived with the tea. The china looked remarkably
good, if ill matched, and the boy carried it in on a silver salver
of fine quality. He deposited this on the table, and there being
only one chair we remained standing to partake of the infu-
sion. Duty done, the boy dropped to all fours and scuttled to
his former post.
What about him? I said.
Catchpole spilled the greater portion of his tea. Ah, nnnn-
nno, ah that is...
I stepped toward him.
Its my son! he shrieked.
Well take him too, I think. Shall I ask him?

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

But the boy was already at my knee like some hound by

its master. Catchpole seemed disinclined to argue. We finished
our tea as Catchpole brought out a woman of, it seemed,
middle years.
She had been engaged as a pot-woman in the past in sev-
eral of the towns places of entertainment, and had been
incarcerated for supplementing her income by providing
additional diversions. It was hardly to be believed, to look at
her. Perhaps the depredations of Catchpoles hospitality had
not been easily borne. Mary Cotton was her name, and she
dipped a clumsy courtesy on pronouncement of it.
The second party to emerge from durance vile was a
broad-backed fellow with a high forehead but no sign of
intelligence behind it, his eyes dull and flat. It was all he could
do to utter his name: James Bill.
I asked him if he were kin to the mute in the Coble Inn,
but might as well have asked the sandstone pillar, for he
answered only James Bill. I informed Catchpole that the
parolees were to be ready at ten of the following morning, at
which time a carter would await their persons outside the
House of Correction. Miss Pardoner and I made our way out,
the dog-boy scampering at my heels.
The boys animal characteristics did not confine themselves
to the canine: he hung from the rear of the carriage like a
performing monkey all the way to the Cross Inn. I enjoined
Robson the landlord to find somewhere for the chaise and
instructed him in the matter of the cart for its human cargo.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

He was pleased to offer us rooms for the night, but not so

pleased as I to accept them.
We dined in much the same style as on my previous visit
to the inn: simply but well. My pleasure was only ruined by
a loud and, in time, quite drunken fellow who was making
great play of approaching the dirty bottles, pretending to
touch them but running away at the last minute. It was a
childish pursuit and I became so heartsick of the nonsense I
repaired to my bed, faithful dog-boy at my heels.

I awoke in sudden fashion. The dog-boy was at the foot of

the bed, dreaming of chasing rabbits or perhaps his own
father, whimpering and growling emanating from him in
equal degree. I did not think that this had awakened me.
There was a knock at the door, tentative and light of touch.
I was not displeased to discover Ellen Pardoner as the author
of it. Her face was flushed and she was in her nightgown. The
moonlight shone through the hall window behind her. I
savoured the outline of her limbs and waited.
Let me in, at once. I did so willingly. Miss Pardoner sat
on the bed and looked at me. I said nothing.
Lie with me, she said. Tell me of the evil you have done.
We passed an hour enjoying the comfort of strangers. Her
quiet moans were stifled by a bolster and, where necessary,
my hand. She left the moment her breathing had steadied and
did not look back as I watched the door close behind her.
The dog-boy slept through our most satisfactory encoun-
ter, and long after. I, on the other hand, did not enjoy a long

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

return to sleep. I woke with a start, but did not know why.
Although my room was above the public bar, there was no
sound of carousal or dispute to indicate that Robson was still
at his post. I dressed quickly: shirt, trousers, but no boots,
and felt in my pocket for an item that might prove useful, if
I were lucky.
As I descended the stairs, cat-footed, a noise gradually
increased in volume. By the time I had reached the foot of the
stairs, it seemed to be the dying breaths of a water buffalo. In
fact it was the foolish drunk who had earlier been playing
with the cursed bottles. He lay supine, maw agape on one of
the longer tables in the room, one of the nearest to the self-
same glassware.
I heaved him to his feet using the front of his waistcoat. He
seemed barely sensible to his surroundings or to me. I pivoted
him away from me using his shoulders and pushed him to the
floor. In no time the yellow scarf was around his neck and my
knee was in his back. Just before the death-rattle came I
dragged him upright and swung him nearer to the bottles,
until his flopping arm draped gently over the neat stack.
It appears to be true, one shouldnt touch those bottles,
my friend.
I made my way back to the room, where I was greeted by
a sleepy eye from the dog-boy. The sleep that came, although
it may not have been that of the just, was surely that of
the sated.
*

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 EWAN LAWRIE

The knock at the door awoke us both before the meagre light
crept through the dusty window. I had not undressed, but
called out that I was as yet in my dshabill. I told the boy to
guard the door. After a suitable time, I opened it. It was
Robson, looking a little piqued.
Sir, thiz summat ah-full happent! Doonstairs.
What is it that it may not wait until a man has shaved?
I asked.
Its turrible, ah-full, a divvent na... he spluttered.
Caring not what he did or didnt know, I told him I would
shave before descending and slammed the door in his face.
The water in the porcelain was clean but very cold; soap and
a mug had been provided, but best of all a bone-handled
razor. It proved very sharp and I pocketed it once I had made
use of it.
I made to leave the room, noted the dog-boy at my feet,
took hold of an ear and lifted him so that he might look me
in the face.
Dog-boy, do you think you might walk like a man in
public? At Gibbous House you may do as you please, but
until then you will walk upright in civilised manner. Do you
have a name?
I would have sworn he intended to bark. Instead, he gave
answer in a voice as rusty as an unused hinge:Job.
Well, Job, pleased to meet you, I said, offering a hand. His
own came up like a terriers paw, and then took mine more
or less like a gentleman.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

In the public bar the deceased drunkard was still embrac-

ing the infamously cursd flasks; Miss Pardoner was standing
near the entrance; I smiled, but she did not. Nor did she blink,
frown or acknowledge our recent intimacy in any way. I was
not entirely sure whether I was pleased or not at this
reaction. Robson was smearing tankards whilst standing
behind the bar. Also in attendance was the coroner and a
policeman. I wondered that he had not buckled under the
undoubtedly heavier burden that Constable Turners unex-
plained absence must have placed upon him.
The coroner eyed me nervously. Mr Moffat, we meet
again. My cousin ah enjoyed your visit to his humble
place of work.
Although dissimilar in shape and size, the cousins shared
a certain curve of avarice to the mouth and a glint of greed
in the eye, and I realised why the warden had known who
I was.
As did I, sir, as did I, I replied.
You heard nothing? he asked.
I slept like an innocent. I looked to Job. Did you hear
anything?
No, sir.
These words came no easier to him.
I was a little puzzled as to why the coroner was asking
such anodyne questions, until the policeman offered his only
observation on the matter.
Died o fright. Bottles. Everyone knows not to touch
the bottles.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

The coroner looked at me and shrugged. He leaned over

the cadaver, pulled the shirt collar gently away from the neck
and immediately replaced it with a great deal more haste. He
licked his lips.
Who was he, Robson?
Traveller, ca-yum on the co-acch. Divvent kna his na-yum.
Nivver will now.
The coroner stiffened his spine, tugged at the bottom of his
waistcoat and declared: An apoplexy caused by extreme
fright. Clear as day. Robson, two guineas for the removal and
arrangements.
Robson looked somewhat put out at this, but handed over
two gold coins and some silver, withdrawn piecemeal from a
pouch strung around a grubby neck. The coroner took the
sum with the alacrity I had come to expect from him.
Whether corrupt or simply lazy, he seemed disinclined to
mention what he had seen on the cadavers neck. With a curt
bow to myself and Miss Pardoner, he left the inn, the police-
man trailing behind him.
Robson informed me, somewhat sheepishly, that as the
hour was now nine the cart might be late at the House of
Correction, since he would be using it to deliver the unfortu-
nate fellow to his final destination. I asked him at what time
we could expect to leave Catchpoles place of work, intending
to set off together with my new retainers for Gibbous
House from there.
Haff past, Mistah Moffat. His last trip willunt be a
long yin.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Robson was as good as his somewhat difficult to under-

stand word. We set off northward at precisely half past the
hour by my timepiece. Catchpole had merely bundled the two
parolees out of the door and slammed it behind them without
even the slightest glance at his son.
Neither of the two had aught by way of possessions, save
the clothes on their backs. I instructed Bill to drive the cart
and enquired of the slattern if she knew the whereabouts of
their destination. She replied with a toothless cackle, Wuh
aal know Gibbous House, Mr Moffat.
Get you there then, as best you can. Do not think to play
the absconder. You would regret it, I assure you.
Job hanging limpet-like from the rear of our chaise, Miss
Pardoner and I set out at a somewhat faster rate than the cart
despite our nags customary lethargy.
We had left the cart far behind us by the time we reached
the Lion Bridge. Thankfully, Miss Pardoner did not share
Maccabis passion for matters ornithological. I was equally
grateful for the young womans unusual ability to remain
silent on occasion. Nevertheless, I interrupted my own reverie
on the pleasurable events overnight to ask her, Did she mean
Maccabi? The woman in the cell?
I took my eye off the road ahead, safe enough at the jog-
trot pace of our horse. She looked uncomfortable, something
I had all too seldom succeeded in making her. She licked her
lips and the words came out in somewhat of a rush.
Yes, I mean no. Well... At which point she hung her head.
Ellen, tell me. I placed a hand on hers.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

She was not to be fooled and shook off my comfort as

though it were an irritating fly.
Very well, the woman claimed that Maccabi had... had
compromised her.
I was surprised at her timidity of expression.
Really? Perhaps, there is more to Jedediah than I thought,
I said.
Or less, she said bitterly and she sat in stiff-backed silence
for the remaining hours of the journey.

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 Chapter Thirty-seven

We arrived a little after one, in expectation of lunch. A wait

of reasonable duration produced no welcome at the door,
despite repeated applications of the monkeys-head knocker.
Abandoning the chaise at the entrance, we took the track
around to the rear entrance. The door was ajar, and we made
our way into the deserted kitchen.
Ellen, check Mrs Gonderthwaites quarters.
I looked around the kitchen, running a finger over the
dust on the range. It seemed better not to ponder where the
food came from or how it materialised from such an unprom-
ising source. Miss Pardoner returned, two spots of colour in
her cheeks.
She will be here presently. I took the liberty of telling Mr
Cullis to attend at the same time, since he was also there.
I laughed and, after a moment, she permitted herself to do
the same.
My anger at being kept waiting by these menials was
greatly offset by the anticipation of introducing the new
staff to the rest of the household, especially to Maccabi. His

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 EWAN LAWRIE

continued absence was surprising. That of the professor was

not; the fellow seemed always to be in some distant part of
the house engaged in some no doubt arcane and bizarre pur-
suit. Truly, I had doubts about the mans sanity.
Mrs Gonderthwaite floated in, as insubstantial as ever,
followed by Cullis with his clumsy gait: a phantasm followed
by a troll. I informed them that there would be three new
members of the household arriving shortly; Mrs Gonderth-
waite and Cullis were to prepare rooms and make any other
arrangements for their arrival after preparing a suitable
luncheon. I escorted Miss Pardoner out of the kitchen, pre-
ferring not to dwell on the peculiar methods that might be
employed in that place.
Job had reverted to his earlier mode of perambulation and
followed behind us on all fours. He was suprisingly nimble,
indeed he seemed more comfortable so, and evaded any
encounters with the piles of furniture in the vestibule.
We chose to await the arrival of luncheon in the library,
that being my favourite room. It was not that it was any less
outr than the room filled with the taxidermists phantasma-
goria there was, after all, a riot of clashing styles and many
a thousand rare and unlikely books. No, it was that it was
the only part of the house that retained a sense of grandeur,
that was not overpowered by furnishings or filled with a
menacing claustrophobia. Besides, as in most of the reception
rooms, there was a plentiful supply of beverages.
It had been in my mind to take Miss Pardoner into my
confidence, as I wished to share the problem of the encoded

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

papers. I had long felt a certain nostalgia for the early days
with Arabella Coble, and I fancied that my ward was a
woman of character if not necessarily good. Job had scam-
pered to the French windows and was stretched out in the
pool of sunlight painting the parquet floor. I bade my ward
sit with me at one of the ancient but exquisite tables in the
room. A lone candle in a seven-branched candelabrum stood
on it.
I withdrew the papers from a pocket in my frock coat,
struck a lucifer match on the sole of my boot and lit the
candle. Handing Miss Pardoner one of the papers, I held the
other over the guttering flame. She raised a solitary eyebrow
at me over her blank sheet; I tilted mine toward her and
watched her composure falter as she watched the symbols
appear. I laid the page on the table, took the other from her
and warmed it at the flame. Leaning closer toward her, I said,
I have it in mind that these are encyphered messages. They
came to me in a packet with details of the settlement.
They may be from old man Coble, they may not. Perhaps they
are from Arabella, perhaps not. Will you help me with them?
And how would I do that, Mr Moffat? What do I know
of cyphers? Her smirk was most irritating.
Come, Ellen, whatever you do or dont know about
cyphering, two minds are better than one, are they not?
Perhaps, she said.
Both pages had some five lines of the alien script inscribed
upon them. I withdrew the professors rendition of the
Hebrew and Aramaic alphabets from a pocket and placed it

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 EWAN LAWRIE

beside them. I whispered, without quite knowing why, The

journalist believed it might be as simple as transliteration and
substitution for the Roman letters. It seems likely, for who
would expect me to have the Hebrew, much less Aramaic?
No one, Im sure, Mr Moffat. She gave a laugh. So what
to do? Substitute A for Aleph, B for Bet and so on?
I cannot believe it would be so simple, I replied. But per-
haps we should try it if only for the purpose of elimination.
It is not worth the effort, she said. Can you not see that
these are not words?
Springing to her feet she walked over to the exquisite
white-wood escritoire. She withdrew some sheets of paper
from the secret drawer and I thought I perceived the tiniest
of starts when she discovered the packet of opium was miss-
ing. Her composure was quite recovered when she returned
with the paper.
We began, or should I say Miss Pardoner began, by making
a very good fist of copying the symbols from the parchment
onto the paper. Wisely, she had chosen to apply herself to the
briefer of the two sheets.
She gripped her pen lightly, but her penmanship did not
strike me as particularly feminine; her strokes were bold and
confident and if the loops on the descenders seemed a little
ungenerous, it had a pleasing effect. Stopping suddenly, she
sighed. Well, thats of no use at all. She gestured with the pen
nib at the last symbol. Do you recognise it?
I dont know, woman! Perhaps I was a little sharp.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

It matters not in any case, Mr Moffat. She jabbed at the

letter with the nib once more. Look carefully at it.
It was the symbol from the inns sign. A symbol I had seen
in the books in the asylum. A symbol that appeared in Ara-
bellas diary.
Is it not familiar, sir? She looked keenly at me.
Indeed, I confess I have seen it, but I know nothing of its
meaning.
She whispered clearly to herself alone, How can that be?
I proposed a beverage of some kind, pointing out to my
ward that the writers of my acquaintance often turned to the
spirits for guidance. She laughed and said, The Armagnac,
and it was clear that Miss Pardoner was privy to more of the
houses secrets than she cared to admit.
The good Cardinal Dufour having provided once again, I
warmed the spirit in the glass and enjoyed the aroma, eying
Miss Pardoner over the rim of the glass as I did so.
The professor, does he strike you as, I thought for a
moment, reliable?
In what sense? In the manner of an expensive clock? she
asked, mouth twitching.
Clearly she wished to draw me out, and I felt it unwise to
declare my true impressions of the mans character.
He seems a little, if I might phrase it so, excitable.
He is a genius, Mr Moffat, one must make allowances.
She sat back in her chair and took a generous mouthful of
the Armagnac.
I attempted to turn my thoughts to the problem at hand,

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 EWAN LAWRIE

but in point of fact my head was as empty as those of the

twins. Perhaps I slipped into reverie, but it seemed short-
lived. I was brought to myself with a start when Miss
Pardoner gave the table-top a mighty wallop with the palm
of her hand, crying Ha! in the manner of the most dissolute
baronet winning at Hazard in Crockfords Club.
You have it, Ellen? I asked.
No, sir. But I will tell you the name of this symbol and the
name of the man who created it.
The name of the glyph was Monas Hieroglyphica, which
meant nothing to me. Its inventor was John Dee, which did, as
did the symbol itself since I had seen it more than once before.
I remembered the patient then known as Moffat refused
me access to but two books during the years that I remained
his plaything. Both had been written by John Dee. He often
slept with one or other under his bolster. Once I tried to slip
the book from under his guarding hand and he swept the
back of that hand fiercely against my cheek. My skin was cut
by the heavy ring on his finger. How could I have forgotten
the signet on that ring? It was John Dees glyph and, further-
more, said ring had not been on the patients finger the day
that I became Moffat.
My face must have betrayed something of my shock to
Ellen.
You see! Her eyes shone, but I had not the slightest clue
as to why. It was patently nonsense, but I decided to humour
her; after all, what else had I to do?

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

And so you present me with a further puzzle, Ellen, I

said equably.
She was not beaten yet, however, and shewed me two let-
ters at the beginning of each version of the message. The first
was ;the second was .
There, you see. She spoke fiercely, daring me not to see it.
I saw nothing but the Hebrew letters Aelph and Bet and
presumed the other the Aramaic versions, which the profes-
sor had pronounced Alep and Beth.
There are no words on this paper. Save perhaps one and
that is a word belonging to neither of these languages.
I confessed that I was none the wiser for this information.
She ran a fingernail under a group of five letters in both
languages, and stabbed a forefinger at the Hebrew for
emphasis. Her elegant hand had written
Do you see now?
There seemed no point in dissembling, I knew that Hebrew
did not, in general, represent vowel sounds in the script, with
the exception of the letter Aleph.
One might imagine that someone was trying to write
Moffat.
I was not happy with this development; it sat ill with me
that my name should appear on the document when the will
itself had been so vague about the person who might be the
beneficiary, viz The husband of Arabella Coble, if such
person there be.
Therefore, in spite of my certainty that the mysterious

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 EWAN LAWRIE

message had mentioned me, I sought to cast some doubt

on it.
My dear girl, surely it is naught but a marvellous coinci-
dence! Look at the rest, a random assortment of letters
indeed.
Perhaps they are not words, but they are not random.
The door having swung on its hinges, the professor
entered. I gathered the greater part of the papers and placed
them on my chair beneath the seat of my trousers. Miss Par-
doner, meanwhile, had begun writing on one of the remaining
blank sheets. Naturally, the professor, having the inquisitive
nature of all men of science, peered over my wards shoulder
to ascertain what she had been writing.
Ach, a poem, ein Gedichte. I hope it is suitably romantic
and full of love, he said, giving her a lascivious smile, which
made his absinthe-ruined teeth still less attractive.
Shall I read it, Professor? The professors head still loomed
over her shoulder as she gave me the most expressive wink.
Yes, yes, too much of science makes Enoch a dull fellow.
He let out a laugh that might have cracked a looking-glass
had there been one to hand.

Nor ever so big, as the snout of a pig,

this tiny bud makes home in a fig,
or perhaps a flower, whose petals unfold
with a gamy fragrance, if a fellow is bold.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

She looked innocently up at the professor, and asked, Did it

please you, Professor?
His eyes had crossed momentarily and he ran a finger
round the inside of his collar. Clearing his throat, he opined,
An interesting verse, although of uncertain metre.
He spied our Armagnac and scuttled off in search of a
glass.
Mrs Gonderthwaite arrived and announced the arrival of
luncheon in the dining room, and all three of us drained our
glasses before leaving.

My astonishment was great indeed when I saw the paucity of

the fare on the long table. There was a pair of loaves, but
sadly no fish: only a large and mouldy cheese of indetermi-
nate type. There were four long-corked bottles on the near
end of the table that looked much like porter bottles. Mrs
Gonderthwaite had departed the dining room without so
much as a backward glance.
Maccabi was in attendance. He caught my eye and ges-
tured toward our feast.
There are outstanding accounts at most of the suppliers in
Seahouses, he said simply.
Well, let us settle them, I suggested.
We are short of cash, he replied.
There must be something, I protested.
Ahh... But I did not allow him to finish.
You mean to tell me that the two idiot boys are more
solvent than the household?

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Rather than wait for an answer, I seized one of the bottles

and confirmed that it was indeed porter. We took our seats and
then the four of us made desultory inroads on the meagre fare.

319
 Chapter Thirty-eight

We had eaten, if not our fill, then as much as we could stom-

ach of the victuals on offer when Maccabi let out a sigh. I
asked him the cause of this exhalation.
I am tired, Mr Moffat. Sick and tired, he answered.
For why, you have a comfortable position here, have you
not? I enquired.
He laughed. Its comfortable enough while there are funds
sufficient to eat. But dont imagine I am advantaged in any
pecuniary manner, Mr Moffat.
This, perhaps, accounted for the deeply unfashionable
style of his attire, the best of which I had left at Salomons. I
let him alone; there seemed little point in needling him as his
funk ensured there would be no satisfactory reaction to it.
I turned my attention to the dwarf, perched on his strange
arrangement of box and chair.
Enoch, you must have been busy at something most
important when Ellen and I returned. I had thought you
might attend our arrival.
He squirmed on his high-chair and sniffed loudly. Ah,

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 EWAN LAWRIE

yes... yes I was busy with the inventory! This last came out
at a rush. He gave a broad smile, as though pleased with his
ex tempore invention.
Really? I said. There is no full inventory of the contents
of the house?
He looked puzzled for a moment then, Why, there are the
papers of entailment, among those that you were... delin-
quent in reading at the notarys. He ran a forefinger along
the side of his nose.
But these are not comprehensive, since you are making an
inventory?
No, he replied and stopped short, realising that he had
perhaps chosen the wrong untruth to conceal whatever nefar-
ious activity he had been engaged in.
Splendid, Professor, you have quite made my day, and,
indeed, I presume Jedediahs also. We shall waste no time in
ascertaining with which goods we might realise an efficacious
sum in the shortest of times, I said.
I rose from my chair. Maccabi did the same, but seemed
momentarily torn. We made our courtesies to Miss Pardoner
and, as we turned to leave, I remarked that the professor
was on the dining-room table, a foot-stamping rage worthy
of the flax-spinning dwarf in the tale by the Brothers Grimm.
Of course, liquidating assets was not simply done. I had to
recover the notarised papers from my room. The lists of
effects were generally arranged under headings of whichever
room they might be in, but that was not to say that some item
had not been moved. Therefore, however methodical we

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

might have been, there was nothing for it but to check each
item we inspected against the list.
There were not a few disappointments arrived at, despite
the promise of these pages. A sixteenth-century chest bearing
some heraldic devices was listed as being in the professors
chamber, whilst it plainly was not. On discovering it, I found
it contained a mountain of male intimate apparel in less-than-
pristine condition. Maccabi had high hopes of a pair of
Sheraton satinwood chairs, until these items were to be found
beneath Kettles, large, copper, two on page sixteen of the
kitchen inventory.
At last we came upon an item that was not listed as being
in any location in the house: a French commode. The curves
were beautiful, and the whole was veneered in a quite delight-
ful Japanese lacquer. Despite my suspicion that its designer
might well have been Van Risamburgh, it would only have
fetched, at best, a dozen guineas were we even able to find
a buyer.
Far more gratifying was the discovery of a drawerful of
sovereigns beneath those containing paper and gimcrack
jewellery.
Not a word, Maccabi.
Not a word, Mr Moffat.
I gestured to him to fill his pockets and began to do like-
wise. On the arrival of Mrs Gonderthwaite in the atrium, I
closed the drawer as seemly as I could manage. She seemed
more animated than I had ever seen her, nostrils flaring to

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 EWAN LAWRIE

such an extent that they seemed gaping voids quite dispro-

portionate to the rest of her face.
Mr Moffat, she enunciated carefully, voice taut as a piano
string, there are two the hesitation was deliberate, but not
one of deliberation persons in the kitchen. They claim to
be in employment here. Is it really possible that these are the
new servants you mentioned?
At the last her voice seemed to rise above high-C.
It is no idle claim, madam. I would have thought you glad
of the help. Put the woman to work and send the man
through to us.
Although plainly less than overjoyed by the prospect of
these subordinates, her anger did not affect her gait. The
woman merely floated off as she always did, borne aloft this
time on a cloud of disapproval.
It was a matter of more moments than strictly necessary
before the dull-wit James Bill made his appearance. I indi-
cated to the two of them to transport the commode to the
exterior. Even though as many sovereigns again as had made
their way into pockets various remained within, James Bill
lifted it with tremendous ease and a cacophonous rattle of
coins. It fell to me to open the door while Maccabi looked
on, gape-mouthed as a dolt.
Maccabi, a cart if we have such a thing, something larger
than the chaise if not.
He went, mouth still lolling, to the rear and through the
kitchen to the outbuildings.
I stood outside with James Bill. There was little prospect

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

of, or point in, conversation. Thankfully, Maccabi was rela-

tively swift to return, particularly so in light of the conveyance
on which he did so.
The carts two wheels had not the benefit of spokes or iron
rims. The wood was rough and unfinished and I doubted not
that the bench seat to the front had already inflicted grievous
wounds on Maccabis posterior. The taciturn Bill clearly had
more sense than I had given him credit for, since he manhan-
dled, although it were not so strenuous, the commode into
the rear of the cart.
The gatehouse, Maccabi, I said.
He gave me a quizzical look and I answered it so. Indeed,
no, I prefer to walk.
It was a measure of quite how poorly the vehicle was made
that I was waiting at the side door of the gatehouse ere Mac-
cabi brought it to a halt in front of me. Again, James Bill set
to without prompt and the commode was as quickly on the
ground as Maccabi. The door was not locked. I pushed it
open and made for the door behind which Heathfield Cad-
wallader kept his rigid vigil. The key was yet in the lock so I
turned it and beckoned the two of them to follow me. It
required the two of them to manuvre the piece through the
narrow door. As it happened, Maccabi was to the fore, and
was entering the room with his back to its contents. A ques-
tion which had been in my mind for some time was answered
by the thud as Maccabi fell to the floorboards in a dead faint.
Looking quickly around the room, I noted the same plain
furnishings as before; it seemed the room had remained

324
 EWAN LAWRIE

undisturbed since I had stumbled upon Heathfield Cadwal-

lader. I opened the sovereign drawer in the commode, handed
one to James Bill and began removing the remainder to the
drawers beside the chair in which Cadwalladers effigy had
been enthroned.
James Bill continued worrying at the gold coin with his
blackish teeth for a few moments before secreting it in a
pocket. The commode drawer was empty at last and I turned
to look at the inert form of Maccabi. It was clear he would
soon run to the jowly dissipation that was oft the fate of
large-framed, golden-locked fellows, for with his physiog-
nomy in relaxed state the firm jaw-line hinted at an incipient
surrender to gravity. On my giving him a nudge with a toe of
my boot, he began at last to stir.
Bolting upright, he seemed fit to swoon once again, on
sight of Cadwallader.
Its... its... he spluttered.
Indeed it is. For ever preserved in his youthful glory, I
said.
He would never look older. Something in the preser-
vation process had tanned his hide to leather, making it seem
like the dried skin of a bats wing. His head appeared
as devoid of life as those of the wax-figures on display in
Baker Street.
Come on, Maccabi, there are matters to attend to at the
house, I said, handing him up and propelling him through
the door of Cadwalladers sanctum.
On locking the door behind us, I pocketed the key, where

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

it gave a satisfying clink against an unknown amount of

gold coin.
Maccabi wisely decided to convey to James Bill that it
had fallen to him to drive the cart back to wherever it had
come from. So Maccabi and I set off on foot in a silence
conspiratorial, if not companionable. Nevertheless, he was
not long comfortable in it, and soon addressed me more
civilly, and indeed less formally, than at any previous time.
Moffat, what manner of thing was it? It looked like him,
but...
His voice fell away, and it was clear that either the fellow
had been completely oblivious to Cadwalladers fate, or he
should have been making his fortune at the City of London
Theatre in Bishopsgate.
Well you know what happened, Jedediah. Are there not
hundreds of other specimens of this handiwork in the house?
It was a little cruel, true, to badger him thus, but I simply
could not believe that he was unaware that the professor was
more than a malevolent midget. He made no reply and the
glum look that settled on his features had the same effect as
his earlier unconsciousness.
We were met at the door by Miss Pardoner. There was a
high colour in her cheeks and her breath came shortly. Oh!
Jedediah! she exclaimed. The professor would like to see
you, in the withdrawing room.
This was most interesting, because the withdrawing room
was the very room I had been unable to find since arriving at
the house. Short of climbing through the window from the

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 EWAN LAWRIE

outside, I could see no way of penetrating its mysteries and

I worried that since I could not find my way into it from the
interior, I would no more be able to leave it. Besides, I did
not wish to break any more expensive glass panes than abso-
lutely necessary.
Excellent, I said. I should like to speak with the profes-
sor.
Oh no, Mr Moffat, he was most explicit, Jedediah. Miss
Pardoner seemed quite agitated.
May I not go where I will in my own property?
I did not raise my voice, although I would have been quite
justified in doing so.
Please, Mr Moffat, I must speak with you, alone. She
stamped a foot and, like most coquettish affectations, it did
not suit her.
This remark put a quite different complexion on the
matter, as did the dark looks that Maccabi darted at myself
and the young lady as he turned out of the furniture-crowded
atrium into the dining room and beyond.
With her almost customary presumption, Miss Pardoner
seized my arm and dragged us both to my left, toward a pha-
lanx of furnishings that obscured any possible entry to the
disused save by the felines west wing. Slightly to the right
of the centre of the wall stood an armoire large enough to
house the clothing of a giant. It too had been an object of
interest to me when Maccabi and I perused the list of entail-
ment. Lighter in colour than mahogany, it nevertheless
boasted that noble woods fulgent appearance. Each door

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

was adorned with a finely turned handle, one of which Miss

Pardoner laid hold of in a savage manner and pulled toward
herself with equal ferocity. She entered the gigantic closet,
dragging me behind her.
Imagine my disappointment when we immediately exited
the rear of this wardrobe in like manner to find ourselves
confronted with the door to the west wing. She turned to me.
Mr Moffat, it is not pleasant, and the odour is unfeasibly
strong, but it is the only way...
To ensure we are undisturbed and safe in confidentiality?
I laughed and she gave me a look of pity before leading me
into the disused part of the house.
I had been low and mean in Cheapside; I had been in the
company of pure-finders, sewer-hunters and the mud-larks of
the Thames, but never had I suffered an assault on my olfac-
tory organ such as was effected by the crossing of that
threshold. Still worse, no sooner had we set foot in the first
room and it was not obvious what the purpose of this room
might be than a hissing and spitting began, as though a herd
of cattle were roasting on a hundred broaches.
My understanding of what my ward had to tell me was not
helped by her insistence on whispering, although there were
none to hear but several hundred cats. What I did glean led
me to believe that the cats were not, in fact, listening. I failed
to hear a single one of them laugh.
It was about my vellum parchments. The letters alongside
my name that Ellen had begun to decipher earlier were sym-

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 EWAN LAWRIE

bols from the Kabbala, as understood by a group she referred

to as the Order of the Rosy Cross: this much I knew already.
The other sheet was more phantastical still; it referred to
an interpretation by John Dee of the meaning of both
V.I.T.R.I.O.L.V.M. and The Chymical Wedding. The writer
intimated that the reanimation of corpses was not only pos-
sible but might even have been achieved. Furthermore, the
text hinted that a party so resurrected might enjoy remark-
able longevity. The name of a certain Comte de St Germain
was mentioned in this context. I recalled that he had been a
cause clbre in London a century ago. I remembered from
Giacomo Casanovas memoirs that he had thought the
Comte The King of Imposters and Quacks, who had once
claimed the ability to melt diamonds. There seemed to be
much from this second sheet indeed. I admit I was brought
up short by Galvani and his experiments on animal electric-
ity. Later, Mary Shelleys Frankenstein was mentioned as
though it were not a work of the most unlikely fiction. The
resurrection of Osiris and the book of Thoth merited a note
in the margin,
Reassembly of parts? Impossible, there must be another
way.
I began to think that the professors plans for me might
mean more inconvenience than I thought, but since I was not
entirely sure of the extent of Miss Pardoners involvement in
the matter I merely said, Really, Ellen, I have never heard
such nonsense in my life. The laugh escaped from my lips
despite the seriousness of her demeanour.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

What is it that you think he does here, Mr Moffat?

Quite simply, I had to confess that I had not the slight-
est idea.

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 Chapter Thirty-nine

The young womans eyes were watering quite as much as my

own. I had been hoping that we were about to retrace our
steps and leave through the Pantagruelian wardrobe. How-
ever, Miss Pardoner broached a new subject. About the
Madwoman, she said.
Madwoman? I asked, surprised by this rare incidence of
the butterfly mind. In my experience, many women were sur-
prised that we males were quite unable to read their minds or
make similar grand leaps of intuition, when they themselves
possessed so great a talent for the association of incongruous
ideas. She had hitherto seemed above such things.
The woman in the House of Correction! Again that
stamp of the foot was unconvincing.
What about her?
It was difficult to maintain elocutory standards while
attempting not to breathe. Consequently, Miss Pardoner
obliged me to repeat myself before replying, She worked
here, before. Her eyes glittered in the darkling gloom and, I
suspected, not entirely due to the feline stench.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Indeed, I said. The usual thing, was it? I asked.

Oh yes, quite usual. The professor dealt with it. A sniff
escaped her.
Well, a satisfactory ending, I would have thought.
She went quite mad, began to carry a wax doll, a hideous
thing, it looked as though it had been fifty years in an attic.
It was a representation of a newborn infant. She took it with
her everywhere, heaven knows whence it came, perhaps it
formed some part of the Collection.
She stopped for an understandably short breath. She
refused to work, began following Jedediah wherever he went,
demanding that he acknowledge his child. Eventually, a ruby
ring was found amongst her effects in her room. The profes-
sor melted the doll down for candles.
And you feel sorry for her? I asked.
Whatever for? The ring was mine, Mr Moffat.

At last we escaped the rank atmosphere of the west wing. I

believed the best solution would have been a significant
number of faggots and some judiciously applied lucifer
matches. It was probable that the stench clung to my new
clothes and I believed I would not readily forgive my ward
for it. We went swiftly to the library; I was in need of drink
to clear the smell from my nostrils.
The professor and Maccabi were doubtless still about their
business in the withdrawing room.
I turned to Miss Pardoner. Some of the professors green
fairy?

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Yes, even that would taste better, she retorted.

Yes, it might, but it would be a damned close thing. I have
a better idea.
I consulted the cardinals learned work on the Forty Vir-
tues once more and withdrew the dwindling supply of
Armagnac from its hiding place.
The professor seemed to be possessed of supra-natural
ability to sniff out a spirit almost ere the cork was drawn,
since he and Maccabi appeared before the first drop was
poured into the glass.
Marvellous, marvellous, just the thing! he said, and he
hurried with his peculiar gait to furnish his companion and
himself with suitable vessels. Resignedly, I charged the extra
two glasses and was fortunate to husband the liquid suffi-
ciently well to cover the bottom of my own.
I had remained standing, as much to keep the diminutive
professor at a disadvantage as to allow such air as was circu-
lating in the library to dissipate the rank stench of the west
wing. As ever, the dwarf affected not to notice, although I
noted his chest seemed to inflate to improbable proportions.
There are additions to our household, I informed the
professor, although surely Maccabi had told him.
Before he could answer, there was the sound of scrambling
along the flooring. Clearly Jobs canine habits encompassed
the full range of traits; his hair was sticking up at the rear like
the ruff of an angered setter and the manner of his stretching,
whilst still on all fours, suggested he had slept in the sunlit
parts of the library for the entire afternoon.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Maccabi looked on aghast as Job came to heel at my side.

The professor, however, leaned over the boy and patted his
head. Job snarled and growled at him. My admonitory
Down, boy! might have been more forceful, but my heart
was not in it. Besides, it was possible that the odour of felines
was responsible for the dog-boys tetchiness.
How shall we pay? asked the professor.
That is not your concern, not now, I replied.
The dwarf moved a hand across his face. I noticed a patch
of skin on the back of it, furfuraceous, as though he had
spilled some dangerous fluid and had not made sufficient
haste to wipe it away.
And yourself, Professor, what diversions have you enjoyed
in my absence? My eyes were still on the hand, now fiddling
with his collar.
Diversions? My times have been dedicated to the work.
He glanced at Maccabi as he uttered the final word.
What is it that you do, Professor? Aside from hoard a
miscellany of unnecessary proportions? I asked.
You would not understand, Mr Moffat, he replied, his
grammar recovered along with his composure.
I did not pursue the matter further. The fellow would have
fabricated some nonsense, and I was sure the exercising of his
imagination in such a task would have given him a modicum
of pleasure at my expense.
What poor apology for sustenance will appear before us
this evening, I wonder? I asked of no one in particular.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

It was improbable that our table would return to its former

standard anent its quality before we had settled our accounts.
Maccabi gave a smirk. The professor merely declared,
There will be meat tonight.
I could not account for the shudder I gave on hearing this.

The table once again was laid for service la Russe, in the
house style. To whit: there appeared to have been some con-
fusion as to what constituted a knife and what a fork;
consequently a random selection of both could be found on
either side of the large under-plate. It was safe to presume
that Mrs Gonderthwaites simian offspring had been charged
with preparing the table.
Judging by the alacrity with which the professor pounced
on the nearest of several bottles of wine, I was not the only
member of the household relieved that, temporary state of
impecuniosity notwithstanding, the cellar remained full. We
took our seats, and the door opened.
The baboon-like boys swaggered in, each bearing an enor-
mous covered salver, which if it were not plate we could
have melted down for enough coin to settle a year of butch-
ers bills. Placing the platters haphazardly on the long table,
each removed the domed lid of their salver with a flourish. To
my left was an enormous roasted haunch, a little long in the
bone for beef and, it had to be said, a little stringy looking.
To the right was a long and lugubrious face I recognised.
The horse had pulled his last chaise.
The meat was well seasoned and had a flavour somewhere

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

between beef and venison. The Gallic palate had long been
used to the pleasures of the equine at table, the professor was
pleased to inform us. He seemed a little disappointed that
none had refused to partake of the unusual repast. Evidently
the head itself was mere decoration; the salver-bearers, how-
ever, having taken a fidgety station standing by the wall, eyed
the horses ignoble head keenly if any diner made move
toward it.
I think it best Maccabi makes course for Seahouses and
the settlement of our accounts on the morrow, I said, before
we eat our remaining beast.
The mare still lives, and the roan, the other seems to be
sickening for something, said Maccabi.
All the more reason to ensure the matter is resolved
tomorrow, Jedediah. I gave him a look that had the desired
effect, for he held his peace.
The fidgeting boys cleared the platters with more diligence
than they had delivered them, perhaps wishing to avoid the
inevitable taint of dust on their own supper, should they let
them fall. They did not return, and it seemed that the rest of
the cutlery had been laid out in vain, save for the professors,
as he was in the process of some dental excavation with the
aid of a fish knife.
More to interrupt this emetic pursuit than out of any real
desire, I said, I thought we might all charge our glasses,
Professor, and withdraw to the room so appropriately named.
Ahh, it is in need of the cleaning! he spluttered.
As the rest of the house is not? I laughed.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Maccabi shifted in his seat. Miss Pardoner looked on with

bored disinterest.
Nevertheless, he began, but I did not allow him to finish.
Notwithstanding your objections, I think we shall repair
to the withdrawing room, sir.
I rose abruptly from my chair and moved to help the little
man from his contraption a little more forcibly than he would
have liked.
There was no evidence of a room between the vivarium
and the library on passing from one to the other, despite the
possibility of peering through the exterior windows into one
such. Even so I was greatly surprised when the professor took
hold of the bell pull beside the huge fireplace in the dining
room. The stone rolled back and we made to enter the pas-
sage. Miss Pardoners look of disinterest had disappeared to
be replaced by one of considerable excitement. The perspira-
tion on her upper lip affected me greatly.
By the time we reached the twin statues of the Golem and
the dybbuk, my ward seemed quite beside herself, and was
incapable of restraining herself from touching the Golem
when we reached it.
The professor had no interest in the Golem this time.
He extended a finger and proved the extent of anatomical
detail lavished on the carving of the dybbuk. No sooner had
he inserted his finger, than a huge slab of the red sandstone
slid away to reveal an entrance in the side wall of the pas-
sage. The three of us followed the professor into the darkness.

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 Chapter Forty

The reason for the inky-blackness became obvious when

the space it filled was revealed to be sufficient only to encom-
pass the four of us in what the late Mr Edgar Allan would
have undoubtedly termed Indian file. I, being immediately
behind Jedermann, felt him fidgeting at around the level of
my abdomen; attempting a cuff, I missed by a country mile
and struck my hand painfully on something long and rigid.
It must have been a lever of some kind, for it behaved as
one and opened a hatch-like affair about four feet in height
and two in breadth, about three feet from floor level. This
was the entry into the withdrawing room. I boosted the
dwarf sufficiently for him to clear the hurdle and enjoyed his
acrobatic efforts to land safely on the other side.
My ingress was easily effected, as was that of Maccabi.
If we had been looking forward to Miss Pardoners efforts
to preserve her dignity in making her entrance, we were
roundly disappointed. The young woman gathered up her
skirts and swung a shapely limb into the room. Pivoting

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 EWAN LAWRIE

gracefully on it, she swung in the other in a quite satisfyingly

disgraceful manner.
The professor pushed the hatch door to and revealed to me
that we had made our entrance courtesy of Mr Gainsbor-
ough. A close inspection of the portrait revealed a faint
signature at the bottom right, but it was the high quantity of
oil in the paint that convinced me. I wished it had been one
of his conversation pieces; it would have most diverting to
discuss Conversation in a Park with Miss Pardoner.
There was nothing strange about the room, save the lack
of a conventional entrance. The ceiling was high, the walls
appeared geometrically sound and in conformity with what I
had presumed from exterior observation.
It seemed to be what its name dictated, a pleasant room
for the entertainment of guests in an intimate setting after a
dinner of formality.
What is it you do here, Professor? I asked, looking
around for any clue.
Researches; with books and papers. He slid a look
at Maccabi.
Would not the library be the perfect location for such end
eavours?
It is quiet here. This time his glance fell on the Reynolds
alongside our painting of entry.
Indeed it is, but you have a plethora of papers in your
chamber also, surely?
Miss Pardoner sidled over to the Reynolds and began

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

fingering the brushwork absently. The professors nervous

gaze became fixed on her hand.
Ah, I do not keep refreshment in my room. I find I need
some... libation to aid my concentration, he said.
He trotted over to the long sideboard and proved himself
in great need of such help. His eyes remained on Miss Par-
doners hand, which was now touching the intricate carving
of the Reynolds gilt frame.
Look! she exclaimed. What strange designs, they look like
the Hebrew letters. Her eyes were wide, but far from innocent.
And see here, halfway up, a Star of David; how peculiar!
The frame is not symm
She had laid her palm on the religious symbol: there was
a click and an unmistakably mechanical sound. The start the
professor gave was prodigious. I was more than startled that
he held on to his glass.
Miss Pardoner evaded the advancing portrait, if not with
grace, with success. The professor had covered his face with
his hands. I walked around the portrait, where a metal table
had extended from the wall. Underneath I saw something
that I believed to be a rack and pinion arrangement, like that
of the cog railway between Middleton and Leeds. This was
not, in fact, the most interesting feature of the table: it
appeared to have the benefit of runnels and perforations
designed to drain it of who knew what fluids to a container
just beneath the table.
The table shone as if polished; there was not a single

340
 EWAN LAWRIE

blemish upon its surface and I surmised the nature of the

liquid that the professor had spilled on his hand.
An interesting thing, I said, so much effort to hide a table,
even one for so special a purpose.
The professor removed his hands. You have no idea what
purpose it serves.
I know that Rembrandts Doctor Tulp would have pre-
ferred it to his own red deal, I replied.
This appeared wide of the mark, for I saw the dwarf
acquire a neck as his shoulders relaxed at this last.
Naturally, the coroner had good reason to leave the jour-
nalists relict in my hands; equally naturally, I satisfied my
own curiosity. He was quite right to leave the matter to me,
since, as you see, I have facilities far superior to his own. His
self-satisfied smile would have provoked Saint Peter to choler.
Maccabi seemed also to be relieved at the turn of the con-
versation, as though a tiger pit had been avoided by sheer
chance. He cleared his throat. So, no mystery, Moffat, simply
the diligence of the professor. We thought you would prefer
not to be troubled by such indelicate matters.
Quite aside from his impudence in addressing me so, I was
displeased that they both considered me such a dupe as to be
taken in by this misdirection.
So, a burial is it? Here at Gibbous House, outwith conse-
crated ground? Surely not?
I could not but accompany these words with a half-smile
at the two of them, and no more could Ellen Pardoner.
The professors coughing fit, if simulated, was most

341
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

convincing indeed. Unfortunately, I was unable to smite his

back mightily, as Miss Pardoner most solicitously attempted
to take care of the fraud. I turned to Maccabi and said but
one word: Drink.
He was wise enough not to interpret this utterance as an
offer and plundered the sideboard for a suitable flask, pour-
ing a simple brandy for the four of us.
Miss Pardoner and the dwarf engaged in a little wrestling
as she attempted to ensure his sipping of the spirit and he
endeavoured to secure a gentlemans draught of it.
In any event, I grew tired of the midgets theatricals and
demanded, Jedermann, where is the body?
The professor broke off his attempts at wresting control of
the brandy. Tilting his head upward, he looked me in the eye
and asked, Does it matter?
I felt I should be wary in answering this question, so I
posed my own.
How can it not?
The important thing is the tenth intellect, or the human
soul, he said.
It was moot whether it were possible to discourage the
windbag, but for the sake of provocation I sighed.
Immortal or otherwise, I cannot believe in it.
Avicennas floating man demonstrates that you are wrong
not to do so.
How is that? I asked, hoping the lecture would not be too
long. I ran my hand absently along the rack under the metal

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 EWAN LAWRIE

table. My ward interposed with the answer while the profes-

sor continued to find something interesting in his glass.
Imagine yourself suspended in the air, isolated from all
sensation. You are floating. You cannot even feel your own
touch on your body. You still think; you are aware of your
physical self, are you not? Her eyes took on a silvered look
as though tears might come at the thought of being sus-
pended so.
How can I know, never having experienced such a thing?
I said.
The professor spat out a single word, Sophistry, before
yelping loudly as he stubbed his toe on the leg of the
metal table.
Miss Pardoner rushed to the dwarfs aid and fussed over
him in a disproportionate manner. I was no longer concerned
about the whereabouts of the late journalists mortal remains:
there had been something left on the rack after all. A tiny
square of some material midway between paper and leather.
If I knew not the location of the corpse, I knew what had
been done to it.
Inspection of the Gainsboroughs frame revealed a tiny
carved menorah on the left hand side. I pressed it and made
my exit, leaving the three of them behind me. It required only
a few moments of blind groping to find a lever at the other
end of the extremely short passage. I reflected that the
manner of gaining entry to it was more appealing. Once at
the statues, on rendering the Golem detumescent, I heard the

343
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

familiar sound of the heavy stone moving and stepped out of

the fireplace into the dining room.
It was pleasurable indeed to be in my own company at last.
I thought I might take a turn outside in the hope of clearing
my head, for it had been stuffy in the withdrawing room.
It was no conscious decision to turn to the left once outside
the front door, to walk past the exterior of the east wing
until I reached the window offering the view into the with-
drawing room.
Despite the short time it had taken to reach its window, the
room was empty; the artistic efforts of Messrs Gainsborough
and Reynolds were reattached to the wall and there was no
trace of spilled fluids on the floor. Perhaps the three of them
had repaired to their respective chambers, but I doubted it
were so.
There being nothing of interest to see through the window,
I decided on prolonging my excursion. It was not quite full
dark, but it was well past what I had called the gloaming as
a boy. At the end of the wing, I spied light emanating from a
library window. The dwarf was asleep, mouth agape,
sprawled in a chair, tiny legs dangling a good twelve inches
from the floor.
On turning at the end of the wing, hard by the French
windows, I was startled by a whimpering and growling.
Clearly Job had decided that the library was his domain, for
he had remained in it throughout dinner and thereafter, I
supposed. I opened the French window, for it was not locked,
and hissed, Job, for pitys sake, quiet.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

To my great surprise, he stood erect and begged my pardon

fulsomely in his still rusty voice.
Well then, I said, let us rest a while, Job. Like friends.
Job made himself comfortable on the floor; I made my way
wearily to my chamber in the hope of a night undisturbed
by dreams.

345
 Chapter Forty-one

It was not to be so. My sleep was disturbed by an endless

cycle of the interview with the Keeper and the strange visitor
that had resulted in Moffats release, and therefore my emer-
gence from the egg of Bedlam. In the manner of dreams, there
seemed to be something about the events that I had failed to
grasp. A sense of something happening off stage; a feeling
that the dialogue spoken by the actors contained a meaning
occult to me. Most unsettling of all was a feeling of familiar-
ity surrounding the tall and vaguely exotic fellow who had
accompanied the doctor that day. I could not say if it was his
manner, voice or appearance that caused this feeling.

It was with some ill humour that I greeted the company at

breakfast the following day. My mood was not improved by
the arrival of yet more bread and cheese. Maccabi looked
relieved to be despatched to Seahouses to pay the estates
outstanding bills. The professor appeared less delighted by
this development.
Miss Pardoner, the professor and I departed the dining

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 EWAN LAWRIE

room for the more comfortable surroundings of the library.

Job scampered to meet me, and only a very stern look pre-
vented his licking my face. Miss Pardoner covered her mouth,
but the movement of her shoulders rendered this stifling
nugatory. The professor had busied himself with refresh-
ments, chiefly for his own gratification. He was considerate
enough to confine the absinthe to his own glass I was pleas-
antly surprised to be presented with a jerez, even though it
was in a somewhat inappropriate tumbler. Ellen Pardoner
received the same, although with the benefit of stemware.
The young lady and I took seats. The professor remained
standing, his back to a shelf of books, his stature measuring
off scarcely four rows. It seemed the position of someone
about to give a lecture, so I felt the need to avert such a tor-
ture by saying the first thing that came into my head.
Professor Jedermann, I would know something about you,
whose destiny seems so bound to that of my own.
He gave a smile that so far from touched his eyes that they
seemed to have turned to glass.
My life is not so interesting a subject, he said.
Begging your pardon, my ward interjected. I am most
interested, sir.
Some life returned to the professors gaze, but good
humour was not what had animated them.
Very well. What is it that you wish to know?
Your secrets, I said. This time Ellen Pardoner did not
attempt to hide her amusement.
The dwarf evinced his usual linguistic discomfiture. One

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

could only guess which secrets he would choose to conceal,

but would the truth be grammatical, or the lies?
My family are or was from Transylvania. If I may say so
we were of the highest rank. I have wandered far. I wander
still, I may wander for ever, or at least to the end of my days.
My father was... well, it is of no consequence. My mother
died in childbirth. I have no brethren, only my fathers legit-
imate offspring. My young half-brother outgrew me by the
time he was ten years old. I did hate this boy and he did
hate me. My father did not stint on my education, my tutor
was the last of the Medici. I enrolled at the University of
Vienna at the age of fifteen. The respect I earned from my
mentors brought me also to a position in that institution.
Apart from a time studying with Fichte in Berlin and some
research conducted in Leyden among the effects of Pieter van
Musschenbroek at the university there, I spent my life in
Vienna until the year 1820.
Imagine my feelings when my loving father sent his first
letter to me, in December of 1819. Imagine my feelings when
he informed me that the little prince was coming to Vienna.
He went by the name of the Comte de St Germain, although
this was no more his name than Jedermann is mine. I rather
think that it was my half-brothers little jest. You may have
heard of a certain Comte de St Germains exploits in London
a century ago? No matter.
At the time I was conducting experiments based on Gal-
vanis theories. You may know of Galvanis nephew? No?
The professor broke off and lifted a heavy volume from a

348
 EWAN LAWRIE

nearby shelf. I saw from the spine that it was a copy of The
Newgate Calendar for 1803. My pondering of what possible
use for such a tome the dwarf might have was cut short, when
he began to read.

He died very easy; and, after hanging the usual time, his
body was cut down and conveyed to a house not far
distant, where it was subjected to the galvanic process by
Professor Aldini, under the inspection of Mr Keate, Mr
Carpue and several other professional gentlemen. M.
Aldini, who is the nephew of the discoverer of this most
interesting science, showed the eminent and superior
powers of galvanism to be far beyond any other stimulant
in nature. On the first application of the process to the
face, the jaws of the deceased criminal began to quiver,
and the adjoining muscles were horribly contorted, and
one eye was actually opened. In the subsequent part of
the process the right hand was raised and clenched, and
the legs and thighs were set in motion. Mr Pass, the
beadle of the Surgeons Company, who was officially
present during this experiment, was so alarmed that he
died of fright soon after his return home.
Some of the uninformed bystanders thought that the
wretched man was on the eve of being restored to life.
This, however, was impossible, as several of his friends,
who were under the scaffold, had violently pulled his legs
in order to put a more speedy termination to his
sufferings.

349
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

The professor broke off his reading and traced on the leaf
with a finger until he found what he next wished to impart.

The experiment, in fact, was of a better use and

tendency. Its object was to show the excitability of the
human frame when this animal electricity was duly
applied. In cases of drowning or suffocation it promised
to be of the utmost use, by reviving the action of the
lungs, and thereby rekindling the expiring spark of
vitality. In cases of apoplexy, or disorders of the head, it
offered also most encouraging prospects for the benefit of
mankind.

My brother attended several less ambitious experiments of

my own at my chambers on the grounds of the University.
He stopped suddenly, and not for the first time I felt some
pity for the little man, who was absently vainly stretching
neck and spine to make himself appear taller.
There was an argument. Of course. Brothers argue.
Amongst humans it has always been so. The old stories are
not universal truths, Mr Moffat. I have ever found my sympa-
thies with Cain and Esau.
He broke off to recharge the glasses.
This time, I received the more suitable of the two glasses.
Ellen Pardoner raised her eyebrows at me over the rim of the
tumbler. The dwarf assumed his former post before the ranks
of books, and stuttered slightly over the first word: My work
was the cause of the disagreement. I had been in communica-

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 EWAN LAWRIE

tion for a number of years with several learned men,

concerning consciousness, the soul, the self. I believed that
there really must be some Vital Spark, which was the motive
for life and being. I had received letters from Aldini himself,
although he believed me too literal in my appreciation of his
uncles experiments and his own. Whilst studying briefly with
Fichte in Berlin, I had met a man who introduced me to the
Rosicrucian texts.
I asked my brother for a loan to continue with my exper-
iments. I did not mention the mystical aspects of my work. In
any event, he did not understand even the simplest of Gal-
vanis experiments. He was a Philistine in the temple of
science, and I threw him out of my rooms at the university. I
have not laid eyes on him to this day. To stay in Vienna
became unsupportable for me. I wandered. Perhaps I was
always fated to do so.
In 183_, I received a letter in Szczecin: a packet that had
followed me for some years, from palace to slum, university
to hospital. It was an offer of employment, signed by Septi-
mus Coble. It was a matter of several months to reach this
place. Coble was already frail, though he survived much more
than a decade after my arrival. Perhaps the young woman in
his care preserved his vitality.
I had not perused my former wifes journal in its entirety,
but I could remember no reference to the professor in the
earlier pages. The professor slipped into silence at this point
and I, for one, was most grateful for it.
My ward had developed some strange agitation about her

351
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

eye, and a few moments later a most alarming jerk of the

head. The stamp of her foot alerted me that the young
woman was attempting to apprise me of her wish that I
accompany her out of the library. The dwarf, by the book-
shelf, was twirling a watch in his fingers, for all the world as
though he needed this link to the temporal plane. In short, he
was as oblivious as to her intentions as all men are to the
musica universalis.
Miss Pardoner took my hand and led me to the fireplace
in the dining room, whence we made our way to the hid-
den room. I looked her square in the eye as I operated the
mechanism hidden in the dybbuks intimate parts and fol-
lowed indecently close behind her as she entered the short
dark passage.

352
 Chapter Forty-two

Feigning ignorance of the exact location of the lever to open

the entrance, I reached around Miss Pardoner and enjoyed
the proximity of the confined space. There was, in fact,
nowhere for her to find relief from my presence, but I was
encouraged that she appeared not to try. Placing my hand on
the lever, I jerked it forcefully and Miss Pardoner gave a little
cry although I was sure the handle had not touched her
person. The painting swung away from us and I enjoyed the
moment of assisting Miss Pardoners entry into the room
from behind. She did, it must be admitted, look a little flushed
as I landed softly on the polished boards.
Well? I asked.
We are here so that we might not be observed. Her eyes
slid to the window.
An excellent situation, Ellen, I replied.
To my great surprise she stepped backward. I made as if to
catch her by a slim wrist, but she evaded me easily.
Mr Moffat, we are here because I have confidences for
your ears.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Words of love or passion?

Are you so shallow that you do not comprehend the
danger you are in, sir?
There was heat in her words; it pained me to realise that
it came from anger.
I think, Miss Pardoner, I am more than a match for a
dwarf who is halfway to Bedlam and that handsome dolt
Maccabi. Besides, what is your concern for me?
You do not concern me in the slightest, Mr Moffat. My
purpose here is quite specific.
Then why take me into your confidence? I lifted an eye-
brow, at which the young woman heaved a sigh.
Because you, sir, are part of his plans and there is none
other here in whom to confide, mores the pity.
Plans? Crackpot schemes, more like, I scoffed.
She was not amused. I do believe you are so dull as not to
have guessed what the professors plans for you are.
Suddenly she turned to a rosewood table on the far side of
the Reynolds. A handsome, though dilapidated, damask-
bound volume lay atop it. From the distance of several feet,
one could see that the pages of the book were well-thumbed.
To my astonishment she seized the tome and threw it toward
my chest. I was so shocked I made quite a poor fist of catch-
ing it.
I assume you have not read this, Mr Moffat. You must
indeed be a trifle dull if you do not see its significance after
having done so.
I turned to the flyleaf and read the handwritten note: To

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Enoch from John William Polidori, Marys wonderful book.

Let the truth ever be stranger than fiction! The title page
shewed me the name of a work I recognised a succs de
belles lettres from perhaps four decades previously. I read the
opening lines. It was on a dreary November night that I first
beheld my man completed...
I tossed the book onto the nearby sofa. Truly, does
the professor think such a thing can be achieved? Is he
quite insane?
For answer Miss Pardoner pressed the Star of David
carved on the Reynolds frame; the strange table emerged
clicking and whirring into the room. It was not empty. Judg-
ing by the dimensions of the thing, the remains of the
policeman were lying on it. It was hard to tell, since most
recognisable features had disappeared with the skin.
There was no doubt of it, even so. What the late disciple of
detection would have termed a clue to his own identity stood
four-square atop the skinned flesh: to whit, the policemans top
hat. I removed it gently from the abomination on the table.
A leaf from a notebook fluttered onto the raw meat. I lifted
it, a corner between thumb and forefinger, and read the
policemans last notes:

Heathfield Cadwallader knew too much? Professor

mad? Evil?

It was hardly illuminating and I reflected that the science of

detection had done him little good in the end.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Miss Pardoner appeared little disturbed by the sight of the

charnel house relict, staring composedly into the distance
somewhere over my shoulder.
Forgive this dull student, Ellen, I began. Would you be so
kind as to explain the necessity for fear on my part?
Oh, you are a most exasperating man, she spat.
Indeed? So much more entertaining, I find, I replied.
Let me ask you something, Mr Moffat, she went on. Do
you think that you alone in the house are not what you seem?
In that moment, her face seemed to offer some indication
of a strain whose cause I could not fathom and I thought
perhaps that, at the very least, she had been less than precise
in the matter of her age.
And what are you, if not my ward? Abandoned and
unwanted daughter of impoverished clergy? Bluestocking
acolyte? What?
My voice may have been a little above the conversational,
as her eyes widened at this last.
I have seen you mark my appearance, sir. No doubt you
have seen that I am no pale English lily. What am I? What
should I be in this house of David?
It ocurred to me that the Sephardi had been expelled from
Spain in great number and that her forefathers might have
been among their number.
There is change in the world, sir. Her eyes glittered and
there was something of the fanatic evident in the excessively
toothy expression occasioned by her drawn-back lips.
We stand with permanence on the threshold of discovery.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Each day brings new knowledge and science into our lives.
There are those who will stop at nothing to advance their
own knowledge.
She moved to the frame and pressed the Star of David once
more, returning Constable Turner to his hiding place behind
the Reynolds.
Why, pray, does this require the skinning of a policeman
and a reporter?
He mounts his failures as trophies by means of the taxi-
dermical art, she said simply.
Failures?
Having murdered the unlucky, he attempts reanimation
by the power of electricity. She looked to the floor. You will
be next, you are wanted for a particular reason. That must be
the meaning of the coded messages to you.
What reason?
That I do not know, she replied, still gazing at the floor-
boards.
And for Gods sake, how have you not stopped the luna-
tic already?
I was, I confess, quite belligerent, though I gave not a fig
for the victims.
We must be prepared for the unlikely eventuality of his
success, she replied.

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 Chapter Forty-three

Clearly the dwarf was not the only person on the premises
with a tenuous foothold in the real world. I stepped forward
and grasped the womans chin. The spark in her eyes had
most definitely not been struck on the flint of passion. No
matter, I spoke calmly. Do you mean to tell me that Alasdair
Moffat is here at the whim of some scheme dreamt up by a
Mittel European madman and his equally deranged acolytes?
They will call us the heroes of science, came the unsatis-
factory answer.
I released her chin. Well, Miss Pardoner, though clearly
that is not your name, I am surprised that you expect me to
go calmly to my fate.
She inhaled deeply through her nostrils and let out a long
sigh.
I do not, sir. My belief is as yours that the professor is a
deeply misguided man.
My eyebrows must have looked most peculiar at this
point, as I raised them to an exceptional degree.
Perhaps disturbed? she offered. In any event, I believe he

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 EWAN LAWRIE

has no hope of success. I am more interested in you than your

part in the Professors schemes.
Sadly, this development could not be further explored, as
the Gainsborough swung open and the professors head and
shoulders appeared over the lip. He gave no evidence that he
had heard any part of the conversation, merely requesting
that I give him a hand to make entry to the room. Seizing him
by his jacket was perhaps not what the dwarf had in mind,
but he contented himself with straightening his jacket in a
most dignified manner.
A look passed between him and the woman; whether it
meant I was in more danger or less, I could not tell.
One might think you were a man of science yourself , Mr
Moffat, he said. But for your singular lack of curiosity.

Enoch Jedermann gave a leer at the purported Miss Pardoner,

though I could not begin to guess the reason for it.
This particular room still made me feel uncomfortable.
The impossibility of its existence, coupled by the incontro-
vertible proof offered by the view through the window from
outside, not to say our presence in it, brought me close
to nausea.
By the by, Professor, how is it done? This room, how do
we pass from the vivarium room to the library without going
through it?
The little man laughed until he passed into a coughing fit.
On recovering himself he said, It is all done with mirrors.
A strange thing to say, as I had yet to remark on the

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

presence of any in the house, save for on the ceiling of the

midgets own chamber and in the trompe loeil painting
through which his chamber and others were reached.

Miss Pardoner, Jedermann and I had passed the hours until

lunch in the library. Conversation between the two former
had been animated and, to my distracted ear, brittle. Perhaps,
as I was, Ellen Pardoner was unsure at to what the professor
had heard of our conversation. In any event I took no part in
theirs, preferring to ponder the phantastical plot into which
I had seemingly fallen. There seemed no possible reason for
me to have attracted the attention of either the late Coble or
the professor. Although my own origins were lost behind
Moffats, they did not include anything remarkable enough
to attract the attention of those interested in the extremes of
scientific endeavour. I felt my only connection to Gibbous
House was that which my association with Arabella Coble
had afforded me.
In the random manner of the house, luncheon was served
at a quarter before two, which time heretofore had not seen
any prandial activity. Maccabi had returned from restoring
the good name of the household among the commercials in
Seahouses. Sadly, he had not thought to return with any
supplies, preferring instead to arrange delivery at some
unspecified time.
The professor prefaced the entry of the two naturals by
informing us that we were to be treated to one of his favou-
rite dishes from the English cuisine.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

And furthermore, he went on, it will serve as a tribute to

the late Mr Allan, who informed me that he liked it also.
This proved to be jugged hare delivered by the two off-
spring of Mrs Gonderthwaite in their acrobatic style. I
enquired of the professor as to its suitability for observant
Jews, with regard to dietary laws.
There are no blunt knives in this house. I drained the
blood myself; for the thickening, you understand, was his
reply.
Is it really your favourite dish? I asked, although I was
unconvinced concerning this gruesome-sounding activity.
It was impossible to think of the dwarfs careful prepara-
tion of the beast without an image of the late constable
intruding. Miss Pardoner, I noted, ate nothing but a few
potatoes perched on the side of her platter, far distant from
the tiny portion of the dish she had allotted herself. Maccabi
picked at his food, but I could not swear I saw him actually
swallow anything.
I grew impatient, wanting the meal to end and the chance
to quiz Miss Pardoner further concerning the professors
plans. Bearding the man himself seemed a foolhardy idea,
although I was tempted. Finally, Jedermann cleared his plate,
dismounted his high-chair and announced his departure on
Collection business. He was through the door before I could
challenge him, but clearly this was merely a euphemism for
the experiments connected with his madmans plot.
Maccabi excused himself, thank goodness, citing the
need to check on the welfare of the horse he had used on his

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

excursion, since it had done more work in the last week than
in many a year.
I turned to the woman calling herself Ellen Pardoner. So?
Might I know your real name?
Ellen will do, was the reply.
Tell me, Ellen, what is my involvement in this plotting?
How did it come about?
She seemed unimpressed by my seductive tones. I will
show you tonight, she said. Wait for my knock at your
chamber door. The professor will leave his room at about
two. We will follow ten minutes behind.
But surely he might be anywhere in this sprawl of a build-
ing by that time.
Ellen, choosing to ignore the peevish tone, retorted, I
know where he will be.
I should have liked to spend the rest of the day in the idle-
ness beloved of the rich and borne uneasily by those less
fortunate. Instead I brooded and paced like the hero of some
novel by one of the brothers Bell. In my impatience to learn
more I forwent dinner, sending word via Job that I was indis-
posed. It was my hope that this would encourage an earlier
withdrawing from the dining room and that I could make my
rendezvous with Miss Pardoner all the sooner.

362
 Chapter Forty-four

The professors progress announced itself in the staccato tap-

ping of his boots as he passed my own door; it was only a
moment or so after the hour of two, just as Ellen had pre-
dicted. She was still more accurate in her forecast of her own
appearance, since the scratching on my door began precisely
ten minutes later.
She held a finger to her lips, and pointed down the passage
toward the hidden entrance. Opening the door with extreme
delicacy, she peered onto the gallery and beckoned me forth.
Once the door was shut behind us, she whispered, No more
than a whisper until we reach the other side.
The other I began, but she cut me off with a savage
motion of a flat hand.
It seemed expedient to follow her meekly downstairs.
In the cluttered atrium, she withdrew two kerchiefs from
somewhere about her person. She held one to her nose and
offered me the other. The cloth was redolent with a most
astringent smell. I sneezed.
Wha-what is it?

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Camphor. It is better than the cats, she said.

I led the way to the large armoire and occasioned our entry
through its rear to the west wing.
You may speak normally now, she said.
I refrained from remarking that it was hardly possible with
the kerchiefs clamped to our faces, and asked, Why does he
come here?
You will see, and perhaps hear, too.
The camphor did little to help the streaming of our eyes,
and so there was some doubt about the former.
The tenebrous gloom offered only vague shapes against an
indistinct background. It was impossible to gauge the dimen-
sions of the room we were in. The noise of the felines ensured
that we could safely bellow Methodist hymns without fear of
discovery. Ellen stepped confidently into the darkness, and I
followed closely, pulling her towards me. She half returned
my embrace before hissing, Have a care, Moffat. We do not
have much time. She softened her voice, adding, Though we
may well later.
We reached a wall after some paces that I wished I had had
the presence of mind to count. Every step was marked by the
rub of one or another cat against my legs. Miss Pardoners
sharp look indicated that I had been unsuccessful in stifling
an unmanly scream when one particularly large specimen
alighted on my left shoulder. Ellen seized the beasts tail and
threw it, squalling, to our rear.
She felt along the wall until, presumably, she found the
handle of a door. We passed through it into a room illuminated

364
 EWAN LAWRIE

by a single candlestick. It seemed as though a thousand dia-

monds lay on a seething carpet of cats, as the single flame was
reflected in every eye.
Miss Pardoner began to wade through the living sea,
which parted somewhat less willingly than the Sea of Reeds
had parted for Moses. Once again I fastened myself close
behind her, but this time she offered no rebuke, and I was
most grateful for it. In the slightly better light I calculated that
the room was of a size of the dining room in the opposite
wing. But I quickly realised that since nothing at all was sym-
metrical about the whole edifice, this observation would be
of no use in determining my present location.
At the end of the room stood the candlestick, propped on
a small table. Beside it, cats stood upon other cats shoulders
like some feline circus act, obscuring the doorway. Miss Par-
doner seized the candlestick and waved it at the pyramid of
cats and they dispersed, hissing.
Through the door the first thing I noticed was the absence
of any cats at all. The second was the presence of hundreds
upon hundreds of mirrors of every shape and size, covering
every surface and standing in rows, facing each other like
those in the Palace of Versailles.
It would have been foolish to hazard a guess at the number
of candles illuminating this huge room; it might only have
been a single taper, since the mirrors were not so precisely
regimented as I had originally thought. Whatever the number
of flickering lights, there were enough reflected images to
drive a man mad if he looked too long into any one of them.

365
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a rapid move-

ment. Miss Pardoner gave me a disparaging look as I let out
a gasp, and pointed a long finger toward her own image in
the nearest glass to my left. This finger she then put to her
lips, whilst cupping a hand to her ear.
There was a rise and fall of an indistinct voice. On occa-
sion a word was recognisable, if the voice reached the volume
of a shout. We stood still; the woman raised her eyebrows at
me when the name Moffat became audible, followed by the
noise of expectoration. She put her mouth to my ear and
whispered, We will walk this aisle, mark you well the mir-
rors. Look at your image.
She strode off and demonstrated by her confident gait yet
another unladylike and exciting quality. After a few sec-
onds spent admiring her long limbs motion beneath her
skirts, I did as I was bid.
At first I noted nothing untoward. Suddenly one mirror
seemed strange. I stopped, unable to fathom what disturbed
me about the image. I caught the reflection of my own eye; it
had a reddish tint in the white, like a gin-soaked drunkards
or a minor demons. This particular mirror had been silvered
with some strange substance that gave the reflected image a
crimson hue. The effect was quite pleasing withal. Neverthe-
less, I paid close attention to the reflections, as the woman had
instructed me. At first, it seemed it was all a matter of colour;
in one such I appeared the very model of an Ancient Briton in
modern dress, so woad-like was the colour of my skin.
The ranting voice had become a little louder in the interim,

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 EWAN LAWRIE

such that it was now possible to discern German, Magyar

and the occasional Latin tag.
Miss Pardoner had stopped at an intersection of mirror
rows, her arms folded. It wanted only the tapping of a foot
to render the picture more ridiculous, to my mind. She jerked
her head to indicate that we should turn left. As we did so her
fingers pointed at the mirrors, reminding me to pay attention
to them.
Shade and colour played no part in these mirrors peculiar-
ities. The first to my right had some fault in the glass itself
and appeared to throw a second silhouette in my reflection,
as though an imperfect copy of myself stood slightly behind
me and a half-step to one side. Doubtless the professor could
have explained this apparent implausibility according to
some sophisticated corruption of Descartes Law. I found it
merely peculiar. He could not have explained the appearance
of three simulacra of myself in the smooth and faultless sur-
face of the next looking glass. There seemed no reason for
this triplication of my image, but move we all four did, in
harmony of motion, as though in some stately dance.
Miss Pardoner gave her own gasp at this moment. I turned
to look at her reflection on the other flank. The image was
unmistakably hers. However, the pleasing if unorthodox
arrangement of her features and figure had been subtly
distorted as to make of her as hideously ugly a creature as
had ever been seen outwith establishments of low entertain-
ment. My own reflection appeared perfectly usual alongside
this harpy.

367
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

There were but few mirrors remaining to the end of this

particular aisle, and though I did not peer too closely at the
reflections, any glimpse of a reflected image was sufficient to
provoke a certain nausea. Miss Pardoner stopped squarely in
front of the last mirror on the right, obscuring any view of a
reflection. Once more her dumb show enjoined me to remain
silent and listen.
The ranting, bellowing madman was revealed to be the
professor, though his words were barely comprehensible.
There seemed a little more English in the content than before.
Of a sudden, the woman stepped away from the mirror. Once
again my composure was not what it might have been.
It seemed I had been transformed into a homuncular ver-
sion of myself, great of chest and uncommon short of leg.
Some further peculiarity of the glass had rendered my teeth
as hideous as those of the professor.
Miss Pardoner spoke without deference to volume. Do
you see?
What? Another distorting mirror?
Have you been listening at all? She started forward and I
felt she but barely refrained from an assault on my person.
To the rantings of an imbecile dwarf? Or is he perhaps
quite drunk?
The dwarfs voice shrieked Rudolf! And something that
might have been either imprecation or curse, but was, to my
ear, Latin.
He is arguing, you dolt!

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 EWAN LAWRIE

With himself? In light of her disregard for any necessity

for silence, I laughed.
The tirade in the next aisle went on. Miss Pardoner took
my hand and led us to the end of the next aisle. The dwarf
was no more than two or three mirrors down, standing fully
erect before one of them, oblivious to all but the reflection.
We passed the end of the aisle and positioned ourselves that
we might see the dwarf and his reflection.
The mirrors properties were the antithesis of those that
had ensured my display as a dwarf, for there was a tall and
handsome fellow reflected in the mirror before the professor.
Yet another trick ensured that any movement was not faith-
fully reflected in the looking-glass. The little mans voice rose
and rose; spittle covered the larger version of himself from
the sternum to the groin. He looked up at the fellow in the
glass and bellowed Rudolf! before falling in a dead faint.
Now do you see?
Should we revive him? I asked, looking down at the
crumpled form on the floor.
He will be quite comfortable for an hour or two, Miss
Pardoner replied.
Are you quite sure?
The professor confirmed his continuing rude health by
letting out at one and the same time a stertor worthy of
a consumptive elephant and an expulsion of flatus that might
have done for the trumpeting of the same species.
We began making our way out of the maze of mirrors. My
companions brow was quite furrowed in concentration, I

369
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

supposed. I busied myself in admiration of the sway of

her skirts.
At the door to the cat-carpeted room, she turned, address-
ing me in the manner of a governess displeased with her pupil.
Well, do you see your part in this? She seemed on the
brink of rage.
A small man arguing with himself in the mirror? I al-
most laughed.
She kicked out at the nearest of the mirrors. It fell back-
ward and the glass crazed but remained in the frame.
But you heard him, you heard him address the mirror
as Rudolf?
A shrug seemed the most expedient course.
Rudolf Jedermann, his brother? she insisted.
Was it so? The man was ranting, I thought.
You saw the distortion in the mirror, did you not?
Of course. I put a hand on her arm. She shook it off.
I know his brother. She coloured somewhat at this revela-
tion. She went on. He comes down here to rail at his brother.
What nonsense, Ellen. I moved sharply back, fearing she
might prefer to kick me rather than risk more bad luck. His
brother is in Vienna, he told me so himself.
You fool! The professor is drunk and he knows well that
it is his own reflection but I tell you it looks like his brother.
It did indeed; the exact image of his brother, the man who
had engineered my release into society as Alasdair Moffat.
The man who had visited me in the asylum in the presence of
the Medical Superintendent. That very man, so much on my

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 EWAN LAWRIE

mind of late, also bore an uncommon resemblance to some-

one else in this room, although in a way that emphasised an
entirely different set of features. Still, there could be no mis-
taking Ellen for anything but the elder mans daughter. I
wondered which of them knew and resolved to keep my
counsel regarding my own knowledge of it.
The young woman turned away and opened the door to
the kingdom of the cats. We made our way back to our
respective chambers without recourse to conversation. I lay
abed but did not sleep with any conviction, noting the pass-
ing of periods of stupor by the occasional leap of the moon
across the sky.

371
 Chapter Forty-five

Eleven in the morning of the following day found me in the

grounds, behind the crumbling stables and other ramshackle
buildings. The need for a constitutional perambulation had
been occasioned by a breakfast of a bonier relation of the
kipper and the kidneys of some large, but not necessarily
domesticated, animal. Less felicitously, this hour found me
also in the company of Jedediah Maccabi.
The quality of the fellows conversation had been painfully
brought home to me in the past by his fascination with the
avian phenomena peculiar to Northumbria. At this particular
time, however, he was boring me with the history of the
Border Reivers and his own belief that one Robert Moffat
had been murdered by the ancestors of the current Earl of
Annandale, John Hope Johnstone, whose father had been the
Honourable Member of Parliament for Dumfriesshire. On
his asking me if I were in any way at all related to the last
leader of Clan Moffat, I scarce managed to refrain from smit-
ing him about the ear and bade him accompany me in silence
until we made some distance from any outbuilding.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

This part of the estate was as yet unknown to me. It seemed

scarcely worthy of exploration before us stood wooded lands
as impenetrable as the dark forests of Bavaria. The feeling of
claustrophobia that the routine and environment of Gibbous
House had engendered in me did not deter me from proposing
that Maccabi and I venture into that sylvan mass. He followed
without great protest. Pigeons filled the gloom with their sin-
ister two-note symphony; I caught the toe of my boot on a
hidden root three or four times in as many yards. Maccabi
followed with the sure-footedness of the countryman. It had
been an impulse to enter the wood, one I regretted as yet
another root bowled me headlong into a patch of thistles.
Maccabi helped me up silently. He took the lead; I followed.
His choice of path was more felicitous than mine and both
of us remained upright until he led me into a clearing lit by
the late spring sun. The glade was filled with wild flowers, the
colours as beautiful as a painting.
Wait, said Maccabi, and he held up a hand.
Why? I asked.
From the dark spaces between the oaks on the other side
of the glade, a swarm of butterflies entered; they hovered over
a large patch of what appeared to be lilies, though it was
early in the year for such blooms. I decided to risk Maccabis
enthusiasm for natural history.
Are they lilies?
I believe they are, Mr Moffat, though they should not be.
What are you talking about, man? I felt heat rise in
my face.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Do you know what they symbolise? he asked.

I doubt I care. My eye was caught by the butterfly swarm,
suddenly joined by yet another horde, all the colours swirl-
ing, darting.
You should, he said. Some say they represent resurrection.
By this time there must have been several hundred butter-
flies. For the briefest instant every one stopped the beating of
its wings. The swarm assumed a columnar shape and I imag-
ined I saw the outline of a man within it. Just as suddenly the
shape dissolved and the butterflies flew away. The petals of
the lilies appeared to have wilted and fallen under the weight
of the insect swarm.
Others say that the lily represents death, said Maccabi.
To the left of the depleted flowers were two gnarled
stumps, the smooth tops showing that the trees themselves
had been felled long ago. I sat on one and motioned to Mac-
cabi to sit. It was quite surprising that the man was not
married, he cut so handsome a figure. He had no need to
acknowledge his origins and could quite easily have swept
any daughter of the new nobility off her feet and into an
unsuitable marriage. I could not imagine why he had not. He
seemed quite preoccupied and I took great pleasure in inter-
rupting his reverie.
Jedediah, are you the professors man? Or were you
Cobles?
He looked at me closely, as if to find some subterfuge writ
large upon my face.
I am, sir, my own man, came his cool reply.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

I think, Jedediah, that you are my man. If not ... I

stopped, putting a hand on his knee.
He shifted uncomfortably, my hand slid from his breeches.
He cleared his throat.
That is not among my sins, Mr Moffat, he said.
I am pleased to hear that there are others, Jedediah. But I
will know, nonetheless, are you my man now?
He bit his lip. I am not your lackey. The professor is noth-
ing to me, however.
Im glad to hear it. I clapped him in manly fashion on the
back. But you are a Jew?
He jerked, as I had tight hold of the hair at the back of his
neck. He squeezed the words through the pain as I twisted
my grip. Not by birthright. I have my mothers colour. My
position is... complicated.
This last emerged accompanied by the gasp he gave as I
released his blond locks.
Birthright? There is so much importance attached to such
an insignificant matter. Esau was right, dont you agree, Jede-
diah, it has no more value than lentil soup?
He did not answer, indulging in a twice-vain effort at a
smoothing of his hair.
In the spirit of our new-found understanding, tell me,
Jedediah mine, what plots am I caught up in?
The look of incredulity he gave me enraged me sufficiently
to seize his hair once again and demonstrate that he was
indeed mine.
*

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Afterward, when he had finished vomiting, he explained my

situation. The professor, he said, intended to murder me and
reanimate my corpse by means of a huge electrical charge
that would be generated with the help of the vast furnaces
below ground. It was of some satisfaction to me that Miss
Pardoner had been sincere with me. Maccabi further claimed
that Cadwallader, the reporter, the policeman and countless
others had been nothing more than preliminary experiments,
proofs that what the professor intended was possible. I
remarked that thus far such proofs had self-evidently been
elusive. I could have smitten him mightily when he said, Per-
haps not.
The taxidermy was surely, as the professor himself had
earlier said, no more than a hobby, his very own violon dIn-
gres. Maccabi did mention the professors concern that his
brother Rudolf would arrive to ruin his schemes. He con-
cluded his account by informing me that I could expect my
own resurrection within a very few days. I confess I felt a little
nauseous myself at that point.
As we made our way back through the dense woodland, I
braced Maccabi once again. So, how do you come to be here,
Jedediah?
In the same way as so much of what you have seen here.
He did not amplify further, until I lifted my hand.
I was collected by Septimus Coble, he said bitterly, and he
gave me a look that informed me that no kind of physical
assault would draw more from him. Nonetheless, his earlier

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claim to be his own man was clearly bravado of the most

empty kind.
At the least, Maccabi had confirmed the half of what the
putative Miss Pardoner had intimated. It exercised my mind
greatly that I could see no way to turn this situation to my
advantage, short of disposing of the entire household and
making off with such portable effects as would raise the most
capital in London.

377
 Chapter Forty-six

On arrival at the library, the sight of the professor deep in

conversation with Miss Pardoner, at altogether too close
quarters, greeted us. She took a step backward from the
gnome on noting our arrival. It seemed to me that Miss Par-
doner had been instructed by someone or other to maintain
some control over the professor. I wondered if it might be the
senior Jedermann and to what lengths he expected the
woman to go. Perhaps she stopped short of inappropriate
relations, but the dwarf held his hands over his lower abdo-
men as he turned to greet us.
Mr Moffat, good day once again!
The man was as transparent as polished glass. He moved
a hand to wipe some drool from the side of his mouth and
my stomach heaved as I saw why he had used both hands to
obscure any view of his trouser front.
I returned his greeting.
Are you quite well, Mr Moffat? the strumpet asked,
smirking.
Indeed, I am. The better for seeing yourself.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

I was grateful that my own tailoring was more generous

than that of the professor for, despite my recent use of Mac-
cabi, Miss Pardoner had provoked a familiar reaction with
her impudence.
Clapping my hands, I instructed Maccabi to serve us with
libations ad libitem. It was pleasing to note he did not demur,
although Miss Pardoner gave him a strange look. I wondered
if she was surprised or disappointed. Jedediah served my own
jerez last and I hoped for his own sake he meant no insult by
it. In any event, as I was the host that was as it should be. He
returned to the long board and served himself a port, which
he drained at a draught before recharging the glass.
Professor, I began, are all of your family as travelled as
yourself?
Some wander, some do not. His syntax had returned with
his composure.
I wondered, perhaps, is it quite impossible that I might, at
some distant time, have encountered a sibling of yours? Trav-
elling, as some might put it, incognito?
Miss Pardoner gave a slow wink.
I doubt it, Mr Moffat. I doubt it very much.
Which statement, in its linguistic perfection, indicated that
he was telling the truth, or was at least entirely comfortable
in the lie.
However, Miss Pardoners ocular hint had persuaded me
that an encounter with Rudolf Jedermann had been entirely
possible. I wondered if it might also be possible to draw out
the dwarf on the subject of his half-brother or at least to

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

gain some inkling of the alternative plans that man might

have for me.
Rudolf, your brother, I began.
He interrupted with something that might have been
Stiefbrder.
Quite, I continued. Rudolf, an important man, no doubt?
If you think fame for its own sake important, he replied.
Well respected. Not given to scatter-brained schemes?
I asked.
No, he is a practical man, but most unscientific.
How so? Is it not possible to possess both qualities?
He snorted and scampered to the decanters, pouring him-
self a generous volume of the first thing he laid a hand on. He
cut a quite ludicrous figure, his over-generous and grubby
shirt collar had all but escaped the confines of his jacket; the
cloth of said shirt hung so low as to emerge from the tail of
the same. The overall impression was of an urchin who had
burgled the contents of a gentlemans press.
He gulped. Entirely so, Mr Moffat. Unless you are a super-
stitious peasant.
I wondered how his relative would have reacted had he
heard this insult.
I assume he continues to dismiss your... I hesitated,
experiments.
He would, did he but know anything of me, or my
research. I have told you, I have not spoken to him these last
twenty years. It was the whine of a bullied boy.
Yet you know something of him? I countered.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

How could I not? They talk of him all over Europe. I

heard the bitterness in his voice.
What is it to you?
He is famous, fted throughout Europe. He preys on the
foolish; did the name he pretended to in Vienna not hint at
the tomfoolery he spreads among the credulous?
I remembered he had mentioned the Comte de St Germain.
He nodded his head with vigour. Himself a famous char-
latan. My brother repeats the Wondermans outrageous lies
in salons and ballrooms and people believe him a great phi-
losopher and scientist.
It was most satisfying to see the little man struggle with a
rage greater than himself, aware that there was nothing he
could do to relieve it at that time.
Just then, Miss Pardoner said, You share an interest in the
Rosy Cross, Professor. You have told me that at least.
We are in agreement about some things, not others,
he replied.
Ah, I said. As above, so below!
The professors eye yellowed visibly, as though suddenly
jaundiced by sheer malevolence.
That is one thing about which we are agreed.
He turned on his heel in a miniature parody of dudgeon
and scuttled from the room.
The young woman turned to me and declared, I should
not provoke him if I were you.
I silenced Maccabis snort of laughter with a look, and
replied to her, Provocation of the mite will change nothing

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

regarding his intentions, but it may distract him from his

preparations for them.
I lifted my glass to the both of them, drained the inferior
jerez and strode out of the French windows into the fresher
air of the flagged area outside.
The day was sunlit, hazy. It occurred to me that I had not
seen Job Catchpole for the best part of a day, upright or on
all fours. In the distance I could hear loud whistles and word-
less calls. Over the rise a flock of sheep appeared, their
progress too purposeful not to be under the guidance of a
shepherd. As famine follows feast, Cullis, brandishing a shep-
herds crook a good cubit taller than he, ambled over the
horizon. Darting around the rearmost ovines, nipping at their
heels, was the dog-boy. There seemed little point in trying to
reform his strange behaviours; I was sure he would have occu-
pied Edinburghs Medical Superintendent for many years.
The sheep, Cullis and his helper came to a stop at the edge
of the flagstones. Cullis removed a battered piece of millinery
that fell between cap and hat, but likely began life as neither.
Clearing his throat, he said in his scarcely penetrable accent,
Ah thowt wuh could eat wunnathuh sheep.
A splendid idea, Cullis. See to it, I replied.
Again, he tugged at nothing in the area of where a forelock
would have been had he yet been blessed with sufficient hair.
The flock set off toward the rear of the house and its dilapi-
dated outbuildings. I hoped Cullis would not be dilatory in
supplying Mrs Gonderthwaite with the mutton.
For want of other diversions, I followed shortly after. Job,

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 EWAN LAWRIE

on two legs for once, held Culliss crook and kept the sheep
at bay on the far side of the small courtyard. The bleating of
the sheep was loud indeed, and even at a distance of some
yards I could see their eyes rolling. Given the time of year, the
dearth of lambs was most perplexing. In fact there had been
only the one, as far I had been able to ascertain.
In the courtyard itself, the giant Bill held the sacrificial
lamb before his chest. Clearly, it would not be mutton after
all. The beast was struggling mightily, but to no avail. The
lambs own chest, abdomen and loins were presented toward
Cullis, who once again was wearing the blood-blackened
apron. Before him was the wicked blade I had seen a few days
earlier. It seemed as though the struggling sheeps eyes fol-
lowed the blade, which glinted in the milky sunlight.
It was ruthless and hardly quick. There was little doubt
that Culliss method of despatch was brutal. The noise of the
animals suffering, however, was outmatched by the distress
of the rest of the flock, which finally dispersed in all direc-
tions as the chosen one breathed its last. As drenched in the
blood of the sheep as Cullis was, nary a drop had fallen on
the giant imbecile, whose expression had remained vacant
throughout. I reflected that some, more squeamish than I,
would have considered an absence from that evenings dinner.
That repast was not indelibly marked on my memory. It
must indeed be true that tastes are quickly jaded. The oddities
of Gibbous House had already palled for me. Despite the
poetaster Cowpers assertion that variety was the spice of life,
it seemed to me that an incessant flow of the unusual was

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

equally as boring as the slow trickle of the undifferentiated.

Prior to bidding the assembled company good night, I
informed Maccabi that he would be driving myself and all
who cared to accompany me to the Coble Inn in Seahouses
on the morrow. Even a visit to a shoreside inn would provide
relief from the oppression I felt in Gibbous House. Besides, it
seemed the most quotidian component of my inheritance
and I was in sore need of something, anything, of the
mundane.

384
 Chapter Forty-seven

Having unwillingly broken our fast on oatmeal, Miss Par-

doner and I stood afront the main entrance to the house. It
was a little cooler than it had lately been, although the sun
was brighter in the sky. Maccabi rounded the corner with a
din one might have associated with a blacksmith at his anvil.
He sat in the drivers seat of a four-wheeled carriage: it could
have been a calash if its condition were due to age but its
lines bespoke a barouche, albeit one that had long remained
unused in a particularly filthy location.
This vehicle was being drawn by what might loosely have
been termed our last pair of horses. The one withered jade
familiar from previous excursions marched in tandem with a
healthier looking specimen a full three hands shorter. This
beast was healthier in so far as it consisted of a quite consider-
able amount of flesh; its swaying could conceivably have been
occasioned by the effort required to hold up the enormous
barrel of its gut. This horse had the misfortune to be on the
off-side of the traces and was quite disturbed by the periodic
clank of the metal wheel rim against the steel-shod mudguard.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Maccabi stood straight-backed and with far more dignity

than the dilapidated state of the carriage warranted.
I was about to hand Miss Pardoner up to the seats in the
rear, when the professor burst pell-mell from the house. Wait,
wait. I shall come too! Yes, I will, he bellowed.
He scuttled to the off-side. It was exceedingly difficult not
to laugh at his attempt to swing himself aboard, and using
the mudguard as purchase resulted in an ignominious fall.
This, however, removed the cause of the incommodious din
made by the vehicle when in progress, so the little man
did not suffer in vain. Maccabi applied the switch to the
withers of the horses and, after a glare from the wall-eyed
bag of bones to the left, the carriage trundled northward
toward Seahouses.

The faded paint on the board outside the Coble Inn described
a beached fishing vessel with nets spread on a sandy shore
quite unlike the rock-strewn beaches to be found not twenty
yards distant. The door to the one-room alehouse was ajar
and, judging by the din emerging from it, the enterprise was
somewhat more lively than on the occasion of my last
visit. We stepped back as a brawny fellow cartwheeled out of
the entrance, gouts of blood threatening our clothing as he
did so.
I nodded at Maccabi, in the hope that he would precede us
all and clear a safe passage to the counter. The professor,
however, had other ideas, letting out a childish laugh as he
barrelled through the door and the mle on the other side of

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 EWAN LAWRIE

it. This at least allowed us to make our own way through,

since the dwarf had laid about him with mean little kicks to
the shins of the combatants. The stature of their assailant not
coming up to their expectations, he made his way to the bar
unscathed: we received many puzzled looks from inebriated
dolts who were quite unable to reconcile the blows received
with our passage moments afterwards.
John Bill stood behind the counter, rhythmically tapping a
keg whilst observing the mayhem on the public side of the
bar. I reached the counter and held up three fingers before
turning to Miss Pardoner and raising my eyebrows. She con-
tinued the dumb show by holding up first three fingers on her
left hand and then the index of her right, before turning it to
her own bosom. John Bill, clearly more conversant with such
intercourse than I, clattered four tankards on the counter. I
felt this clatter more through the vibration of the counter
than of my tympanum, since the brawl had continued after
the brief hiatus caused by our arrival.
The mute landlord of the Coble Inn produced a large tin
plate and a ladle from under the counter. He made sufficient
noise with these to attract the attention of the rest of the cli-
entele, who then floated away like driftwood on an ebb tide.
All save one. A hunched figure, the man was swarthy and
vaguely familiar. His topcoat was cunningly cut to make the
least of the hunch of his back. His cracked voice was instantly
known to me, but it was left to his words to reveal to me
whence I knew it. Hah, I cut a gibbous figure, dont I, Scotch-
man? Nearer home than you ought to be, now, Ill warrant.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

The professors smile was quite queasy; Maccabi had

turned most pale. Miss Pardoner said, Septimus, Septimus,
you look so lively for one who has passed away.
The man smiled. You are mistaken in me, miss. He
pointed a crooked finger toward me, Im sure this gentleman
will acknowledge my identity.
He looked familiar, that much was true. Dislocation was
the problem, or perhaps attire. As when meeting a bare-but-
tocked bishop in a brothel, the incongruity delayed
recognition. At least until he said, Ha, Scotchman! You have
evaded the catchpoles, at least.
I laughed. I doubt the Northumbrians will care much for
the Fantoccini, my friend.
The professor continued to look shifty and sick by turns;
Maccabi attempted an interjection that was rendered unintel-
ligible by a stutter. Miss Pardoner revealed some indignation
with a stamp of her not-quite-dainty foot.
Septimus Coble, will you stop this nonsense. I know you,
you are known to all, save she broke off and jerked her
head in my direction. It was not a gesture redolent of society.
The mans accent was not so strong as I remembered it,
although there were traces that could have been attributed to
Romania or the Romany. He was somewhat better dressed,
which perhaps gave the lie to his guise as an itinerant street
entertainer. Still, there was something else that seemed at
odds with my recollections. As he spoke, I fancied for a
moment that his diction was more careful, as though there
were some problem with his jaw.

388
 EWAN LAWRIE

My lady, were I this Septimus Coble I should know your

name, it seems. Why not tell me it, and I will pretend to the
title for your sake?
This gallantry was undermined by a large gout of spittle
and the alarming sight of his dentures shooting forth from his
mouth. He caught them deftly in his hand and replaced them.
Mr Ashs vulcanite is not the match of Josiahs porcelain,
I fear, he said, shaking his head. That may have been the case,
but his difficulties perhaps accrued from the likelihood that
he was not the first owner of the dentures. Furthermore, he
had evidently not been in the habit of wearing them long.
I am Ellen Pardoner, as well you know, since I have been
more than a little time in your household, sir.
Enchanted to meet you, Miss Pardoner, the man replied,
taking her hand in a most presumptive manner. The young
woman removed it sharply from his grasp before the with-
ered lips touched her flesh. A guttural laugh issued from
between the vulcanite teeth, which briefly emerged once more
from the thin mouth.
Miss Pardoners eyes darted from side to side and, most
uncharacteristically, it appeared that her bosom was heaving.
Maccabis expression was now that of a beagle mesmerised
by a fly. The professor was chewing his lower lip, still unac-
countably silent. I seized the moment. How then shall we call
you, sir? I asked.
This provoked a fit of something between coughing and
laughing. On recovering himself and his teeth he

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

announced, My names are legion, before laughing, for want

of a better word, demonically.
Perhaps you might furnish us with your preference for
conveniences sake? I ventured.
Miss Pardoner let out a snort. On turning to the others of
our company she must have viewed the expressions of the
professor and Maccabi in much the same way as I, for her
eyebrows rose and her mouth formed as pretty a facsimile of
the letter o as ever had been seen. The stranger winked at
one or all of us:

Wise Solomon, Puck or Harlequin,

these am I, mayhap their kin:
dearest Bill says whats in a name?
I concur and say the same.

This last word was somewhat strangled in expression as my

hand had grasped the villains throat and was squeezing
mightily.
A name, sir. False or true, but a name I will have.
One last squeeze accompanied the last word of the ultima-
tum. This time the man failed to catch his dentition as it fell
and it pleased me greatly to kick it to the corner.
Sholomum, Sholomum Coh-wem, he sputtered, already
feeling the want of his ill-fitting teeth.
The professors eyes widened, most likely at the coinci-
dence of the initial letters of the fellows name. Maccabi
turned a shade most unbecoming to the blond of his coiffure;

390
 EWAN LAWRIE

I fancied I could see the working of his mind in the darting

of his eyes hither and yon. It seemed uncommon slow in pro-
ducing much enlightenment, as his brow remained knotted
for several moments after I enquired of Mr Cohen as to his
business in Northumbria.
No bishness, shir, Cohen said, examining the floor about
him for his dentures. A trip fo pleshur shimply.
Miss Pardoner handed him his teeth.
And to visit distant relatives, he went on.
The professor seemed relaxed for the first time since we
had laid eyes on this familiar to the others, at least
stranger.
What relatives? the dwarf asked.
Distant relatives. Far from here, or not so far, my dear.
The man giggled.
Perhaps he was mad; I had long thought that there was
nothing madder in the world than a poet and his own ten-
dency to rhyme evinced their least-appealing characteristic.
Besides, if the fellow had suffered in one of the professors
experiments, who would not be driven mad by being one
moment dead and the next alive? It seemed preposterous that
any such experiment should ever have succeeded.
Having drained my own tankard, I waved it at the com-
pany and at the mute landlord. Miss Pardoner despatched
what must have been a three-quarter-full pot with some
panache, a single stray drop requiring rescue by her nimble
tongue thereafter. I waggled my tankard in Cohens face; he
smiled and nodded, but not too vigorously.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

All save the professor fell on the recharged vessels with

alacrity, that man being hindered by his lack of stature and his
unwillingness to beg assistance. Finally, Miss Pardoner took
pity on him and handed the tankard down from the counter.
At last the dwarf felt able to make conversation and
addressed Mr Cohen.
Ahm... Cohen you say? Visiting the King of the Gypsies?
How interesting!
The Middle European r was quite something to hear; it
rendered the word itself so interesting as to be ludicrous.
Visited, sir, the Faas are visited and I return thence, I came
here to fritter a few
He broke off, most assuredly because my hands had
neared his throat once more.
The professor was not finished himself. A Gypsy Jew? Or
a Jewish Gypsy? How exotic!
Both Maccabi and Miss Pardoner looked at the professor
sharply, the former with the eye roll of a maddened mare
and the latter in dumb incomprehension. I didnt know what
to make of it, until Miss Pardoner said, Gypsy, Jew? Out-
siders both; neither beyond assuming a lacquer of belief or
custom to avoid persecution, Professor, is that not true?
The stranger straightened as much as his hump would
allow and pronounced, Solomon Cohen, Gypsy Jew, bids
you all a fond a-dieu!
I would have had the truth of it from him as to his revivi-
fication or imposture, whichever it might have been. However,
he was out of the door before I could lay a hand on him, and

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 EWAN LAWRIE

I reflected that an afternoon of normality had proved beyond

my reach after all.
The warped door had scarcely closed behind Cohen when
all left present began to talk at once; save, of course, our host.
It would have been all too easy to assert myself and insist on
being heard first, but I decided against it, in the interest of
seeing who would prevail on the others to defer to them-
selves. It was Maccabi: I saw him. I saw him, I tell you. Chest
still and the reek of death upon him!
I winced at the shrill pitch of his voice. Miss Pardoners
riposte lacked this same womanish timbre. Yet we all saw
him just now, did we not? The unfortunate teeth were no
disguise at all, surely?
It was not he, said the professor.
I took this to be truth, or at least a confident lie, since he
had not mangled the grammar of it.
How not? protested Miss Pardoner.
I will show the impossibility of it, the professor hissed.
Impossible, said Maccabi, although from his demeanour
it was unclear what was, in fact, impossible a living Septi-
mus or the professors disproving of such.
Drink up, then, and show us, Jedermann, I am weary of
the beer and this hovel, I said.

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 Chapter Forty-eight

Having sorted a few coins, I slapped them on the bar. The

removal of my hand was hindered by the great weight of John
Bills huge paw lying atop it. He leaned forward and forced
something into the fob-pocket of my waistcoat. It bulged
significantly since it shared the space with a timepiece, but I
did not see what it was. The hand was removed from mine
and placed firmly on my chest. It was all I could do to remain
standing after stumbling backward several paces.
We departed the Coble Inn, for my own part without great
regret.
It was no surprise that our carriage had not been made
away with; no self-respecting thief would have stolen such a
thing. We assumed our seats and I tapped Maccabis shoulder,
saying, Gibbous House, man! Quickly!
The dwarf interposed immediately. North Sunderland,
Jedediah, the cemetery.
The carriage limped the few necessary miles inland. In the
village, which seemed to have relinquished once-dear preten-
sions to the status of town, the sandstone was blackened and

394
 EWAN LAWRIE

miserable looking. The streets themselves were deserted and

we made rapid progress to the aforementioned cemetery. It
was well kept; the grass between the headstones was short
and if the headstones themselves listed like so many drunks,
not a one was obscured by moss or lichen. The carved names
were therefore easy to read: Wilsons, Butterfields and many
a Darling reposed beneath the green turf. In the furthermost
corner, next to the only ill-cared-for section of the perimeter
wall, stood a plain, square-edged stone. Decorated with the
Star of David, it bore the simple inscription:

Septimus Coble 17601852 Gone to a Better Place

The professor bellowed, See!, as though by volume alone he

could make the charade any more believable. For whoever
the mysterious Mr Cohen had been, were he not Septimus
Coble, it was no more likely that the founder of the Collec-
tion lay beneath that headstone. Furthermore, if Coble were
indeed dead, it was inconceivable to me that he would have
escaped being a subject for the professors hobby and that he
did not, even yet, stand stiff and glassy-eyed somewhere
within Gibbous House. I chose not to dwell on the other,
more phantastical alternative.
We boarded the carriage once more. The professor, Mac-
cabi and Miss Pardoner began an interminable dispute about
the mating habits of the Willow Warbler. Though it might
have been some coded exchange designed to exclude me, I

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

had no desire to expend the effort to listen, much less deci-

pher it.
After about an hour, Miss Pardoner indicated that she was
feeling some discomfort and was in need of relief. Maccabi
halted the calash, Miss Pardoner hopped nimbly down with-
out assistance and I said that I would keep watch to ensure
her privacy. This offer was made not from any sense of deco-
rum, rather out of a desire to irritate Maccabi. The woman
disappeared behind a large shrub. I kept a close and careful
watch, drawing great pleasure from learning that certain
parts of her person were not quite so swarthy as her face.
Shortly after the wheels began turning once more, my
enjoyment was despoiled by the professors whispering in my
ear, Did you see it? Did you see the Bonny Black Hare? He
whistled a few bars of a song popular in rural taverns, until
he caught my eye.
It was late afternoon when we reached Gibbous House.
Bidding the company farewell, for I was surely tired of it, I
repaired to my own chamber. On removing my topcoat, I lay
supine on the bed. My hand brushed across the bulge in my
fob-pocket, and I withdrew something wrapped in quite
grubby paper. The strange patterns left by inky fingers looked
both beautiful and meaningless. Removing the paper, I saw
that it was a crudely carved chess piece: a pawn. Surprisingly,
perhaps, it was white. After a few moments pondering why a
mute publican would give me such a thing, I caught sight of
the paper beside me on the bed. Something had been written,

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 EWAN LAWRIE

in a daintily formed hand, on the inner side of the pawns

erstwhile wrapping:

Strings pulled by divinity?

Or cousins consanguinity?
What is inside the humble pawn
could be consumed once withdrawn.
The time to do so cometh soon,
sup ye well, with a long spoon.

Which poetastery, whilst being less than illuminatory about

the purpose of this valuable gift, at least left no doubt as to
the identity of the giver. Replacing the pawn next to my
watch, I crumpled the paper and tossed it out of the window.
Supine once more, I contented myself with imagining a suc-
cessful hunt for the Bonny Black Hare.
A knock at the door roused me some hours later. Miss
Pardoner entered the room after an indecorously short inter-
val. Dinner will be served shortly, Mr Moffat. She sniffed the
air. A window is best left open, from time to time, in the
chamber of a solitary gentleman, sir.
My dear, you might have prevented my solitude and if
you had, I doubt that I should have behaved as a gentleman,
I replied.
The hoped for blush was not forthcoming, instead I
received a clicking of the tongue worthy of a governess to a
spoiled son. She turned on her heel without further commu-
nication and I attended to my toilette and my dress.
*

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

The three members of the household stood glass in hand by

the fireplace in the dining room. There seemed no arrange-
ment of their persons that would meet any criteria of
compositional harmony, but the professor flanked by the
robustly healthy figure of Maccabi and Miss Pardoners own
unfeminine height looked particularly ill posed. The dwarf
greeted me as a molly-house owner might on opening the
door to a drunken sailor. Ah, Moffat! How wonderful! Stu-
pendously so. Well met, fellow!
It seemed the glass in his hand had been recharged more
than once.
Good evening, Jedermann. You seem uncommon well
disposed.
Indeed. Maccabi has informed me that our provender has
been delivered at last. There is now bread, fresh baked by Mrs
Gonderthwaite this day, he enthused.
A strange delight in the provision of so basic a foodstuff,
Enoch? I remarked.
Bread is more necessary than other food, Flavel said, Miss
Pardoner offered.
You should cite such Presbyterians more accurately,
Ellen, I winked here, as bread is more necessary than other
food, so the meditation of death is more necessary than
other meditations.
The professor was for a few moments quite helpless with
laughter, and Maccabi handed me a glass of jerez. Miss
Pardoner studied a crack in the wood panelling beside
the fireplace.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

The repast was, in content, the equal of earlier efforts. The

manner of its presentation was superior: neither simian ser-
vant appeared and we were served by the landlord of the
Coble Inns brother and Job Catchpole, upright for the most
part, under the supervision of Mrs Gonderthwaite.
We had scarcely finished a post-prandial port before Mac-
cabi and the professor made their excuses. Doubtless they
were bound for some experimentation that required stronger
stomachs than mine. My hand was fumbling idly in an outer
pocket. The packet of opium was still in it. I took it out,
unwrapped the oilskin, showed the resinous block to my
companion. I had used such things only rarely, but that night
I felt the need of it as never before. Events seemed outwith
my influence, yet I would not flee, only take the brief refuge
that the fruit of the flower might offer.
Do we have the accoutrements to partake of the heavenly
flower? I asked.
Miss Pardoners eyes gleamed; she did not seem such a one
as would partake of the poppy.
We surely do. What artefact is missing in this house? Such
a thing has yet to be conceived of, or it would already be here,
Mr Moffat. Shall I fetch what you need?
Her head tilted to one side in a manner that I had no doubt
indicated she was overcome with desire, and I was not one to
resist a repetition of the recent nights pleasures.
Please do.
She was not long gone before returning with a pipe and
tray that was more than the equal of John Browns of

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Seahouses. Ellen Pardoner knelt at my feet, and her unusual

stature allowed her to continue to look me in the eye as she
prepared the pipe. I took it from her and sucked the stem, the
clouds and the moon filled my head. After drawing deeply
and severally, I began to feel the languor prior to the dreams:
it struck me suddenly that the gleam in her eye had had noth-
ing to do with her own desire for opium.

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 Chapter Forty-nine

My feet seemed bound together. I stood on a white square,

and a black square lay immediately in front of me. Beyond
that another white square, then a black and so on. Birdsong
filled the air, although I could not swear that I was outside.
Opposite me, across four squares, Maccabi stood at stiff
attention like a Prussian. He was dressed in black. I hobbled
forward two squares. Maccabi remained still. The professors
laugh echoed as though he stood in an empty theatre,
although he was nowhere to be seen. In front and to my right,
dressed in an unaccustomed black bombazine, stood Miss
Pardoner, her eyes staring as though blind. The next moment
she held a dagger high above her head and I was impelled to
grab both her wrist and her throat but I could not. Miss
Pardoners hand descended and shook me awake.
My arms were pinioned, as were my legs. I lay on a table
similar to the one on which I had seen the gruesome remains
of the policeman, though this table was not hidden behind a
painting in the withdrawing room. It was possible to move
my head slightly to the side; on doing so I was greeted by a

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

view that in other circumstances might have been quite

pleasant: namely, Ellen Pardoners lower abdomen. Behind
her I could see red sandstone, and it was clear that we were
somewhere under the house.
The professor continued to laugh. From the corner of my
eye I could see him dancing, hopping from foot to foot, like
Rumpelstiltskin around his fire. His voice, quavering,
instructed Maccabi, whom I could not see, Jedediah, exam-
ine our subject. See that he is healthy.
I could not turn my head to the other side, only return it
to a central position where I could see nothing but the dark
of the rough-hewn rock. It was a matter of sensing the move-
ments of Maccabis hands, rather than seeing them. He
removed something from my fob-pocket and carefully slipped
it into my right hand. It was not my watch. He leaned his ear
to my chest, looking into my face as he did so. He gave a slow
wink, put a finger to his lips and stood up. He removed the
gag deftly: it was one of my own yellow kerchiefs. His meaty
hand clamped over my mouth, he bent once again, this time
to whisper in my ear, When you can, remove the pawns head
and drink the contents.
He flinched at the roar I let out once his hand had quit my
mouth. I spent no more than seconds struggling against the
bonds. The leather, although butter-soft, was as strong as any
cord. The dwarf spoke directly to me for the first time. Ah,
Mr Moffat, you are returned from your travels in the per-
fumed land?
The oath I swore was as satisfying as it was futile. Miss

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Pardoners shape receded and I saw her pick up a metallic

object. It had the look of a knights helm, although the lines
were smoother and more rounded. After she fitted it to my
head, it felt as though I had grown the clypeus of a housefly.
The metal was hard against my nose and flared outward over
my mouth, leaving my nostrils free to breathe. For how long
remained to be seen.
The deprivation of my visual sense did nothing to improve
the others: the lack of ocular stimulus merely prevented the
filtering of unwanted noise. The dwarfs voice was often audi-
ble, issuing instructions that I did not understand. Footfalls
echoed on the sandstone floor of the underground chamber.
Occasional affirmations and single word questions were
spoken by Maccabi or Miss Pardoner. A minute might have
passed, or a day, and there was no way to discover which.
Eventually, there were no more footsteps and something
resembling conversation began.
I have it in mind to wait for the storm, said Jedermann.
Why wait? Miss Pardoner enquired.
Two reasons: perhaps it will require more power than the
voltaic pile can generate. He stopped.
Go on, the woman urged.
He means that the corpse should not be inanimate too
long. Maccabi said.
Quite so. The professor was in agreement. Maccabi,
check the rod.
Let Miss Pardoner go; Ill stay in case of, he hesitated,
complications.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

I am more than a match for a tethered man. Miss Par-

doner sounded quite peevish.
Besides, the dwarf added, Ellen will prepare the subject.
I trust her hand with the dosage.
Footsteps, quick and hard-stamped into the sandstone,
receded, signalling Maccabis departure for the rooftops.
Now? Miss Pardoner asked.
Not yet. Check the bonds. I will wait for the storm, young
woman.
Hands grasped the leather cuffs binding hands and feet.
Two large leather straps were already cinched tight across my
thighs and chest. Miss Pardoners hand checked these thor-
oughly; she was unable to force a finger between strap and
flesh. A stiff collar prevented any movement of my head save
to turn it slightly to the left; the large buckle at the right of
my neck accounted for the impossibility of doing so to that
side. She slipped a finger under the metal face-piece toward
my mouth. I bit it savagely, only letting it free after she had
twisted my private parts with her free hand. The pain was
indescribable, and lasted the longer for my inability to double
over and alleviate it. Most notable of all was the complete
failure of any scream of pain to emerge from Miss Pardoners
lips. Her footsteps evoked her mannish stride as she went
toward the professor.
He may need a strong dose, she said.
Maccabis return was heralded by the rapid beat of a run-
ning mans footsteps.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

He panted a little as he declared, No more than an hour.

Perhaps as little as half that time.
Excellent. The professors voice held a lascivious tone. I
heard a drawer being opened, the clink of glassware and the
burbling of a liquid poured.
Did you check? Maccabi whispered.
I felt his hands at my right wrist and a sharp pain as the
blade sliced through to my skin. He came to the other side of
the table and began fiddling with the other wrist strap. In the
hope that my actions were obscured, I pushed the pawn up
under the face-piece, bit off the wooden head and allowed
God alone knew what substance to pass into my throat.
The taste was quite bizarre; it brought memories of nettle
soups from childhood days in Largs, which in itself was no
pleasant matter. There was also an astringent hint of the new
world fungi Psilocybe, whose tartness almost brought me to
vomiting. Since any emetic reaction might well have killed me
under such restraints as I then was, I swallowed like a Lime-
house molly. The lower portion of the chess piece was
concealed in my right hand; the head of the pawn had fallen
I knew not where.
Suddenly, the beating of my heart was loud in my ears, and
then I felt as though it had supplanted my brain in the cra-
nium. Patients in the Model Asylum had been subjected to
dosages of these mushrooms periodically. In my early days
there, before my association with the learned lunatic who had
died in my clothes, the Keeper had been wont to despatch
me to Leith, where tattooed sailors late off ships from the

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Americas would hand me packages of dried fungi. I had pur-

loined some of the contents only the once: the fearsome
visions had quite terrified a thirteen-year-old boy.
My temporal disorientation was worsened by the potion.
Whether it was a distillate of extracts or an infusion of the
basic ingredients, it appeared to be strong. At least that was
what I told myself as I looked down at my own supine form
on the table. I could see, or believed I could see, the under-
ground chamber I was being held in. The dwarf wore some
kind of linen smock over his usual attire, as did the others.
Maccabis and Miss Pardoners, however, reached only to the
knee. The professors trailed along the sandstone floor. He
wanted only some kind of white hood to complete a childs
picture of a diminutive phantom.
A conversation was in progress: it was audible but seemed
to be in frequencies that I was unable to hear as speech. It
sounded like what some fanciful whalers had once described
to me as the Song of Leviathan. As though such monsters
could sing. The rhythm of my heart was erratic; my head
seemed to expand and contract in sympathy. When the beat
was rapid, I heard snatches of the conversation. Miss Par-
doner held a flask of some kind and I heard her say, Digitalis.
The professors answer was lost in a clap of thunder. The
brightest light I had ever seen seemed to follow it after only
a moment.
I saw Miss Pardoner move towards my body on the table,
lift the face-plate slightly with what must have been an
injured finger and pour the contents of the flask into my

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mouth. It was very strange to taste extract of witches gloves

whilst viewing it being poured into the body on the table, but
not half so strange as the intolerable pain I felt in my chest.

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 Chapter Fifty

Within and without, as above so below, a coruscating light,

scenes from childhood and youth: these were no description
of my experience and neither did any bearded keeper of the
keys turn me back from any gate. The sensation of floating
above my corporeal form had ceased with the first spasm of
my heart. Far from feeling weightless, I felt heavier than the
soul of Job. There was a feeling of disconnection, but I could
not see in any case; perhaps I had ceased to hear. The smell
of violets mingled with the most intimate scent of a woman.
I felt a huge jolt and someone, Miss Pardoner perhaps, re-
moved the mask from my face.
There was a bitter metallic taste in my mouth; the quite
pleasant admixture of odours had been replaced by sour
ammonia. The wet cloth of my trousers accounted for this; it
might have been worse. My torso felt as though I had fallen
beneath the hooves of a post coach pair. I could not speak;
my eyes had not yet become used to the ambient light. Turning
my head to the left, I saw the professor, a demented gleam in
his eye. He turned to Maccabi and Miss Pardoner. He lives!

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Whether he shouted this in triumph or delirium, I did not

know. Maccabis face wore a decided smirk. Miss Pardoners
expression told only of the most astonished incredulity.
It was pleasing to know that my time on earth was not yet
over; I had only wished, however, that it were somewhat less
painful in that moment.
Miss Pardoner, in a voice less confident than ever I had
heard from her, exclaimed, It is done, a resurrected man. A
wonder of the age... it can be... I could...
Maccabis roll of the eyes should have meant something to
me, but it did not. I found my tongue.
Let me up!
Miss Pardoner pulled a pistol from some part of her attire
and instructed Maccabi to loosen the bonds. Once he had
done so, I found I was unable to sit up without assistance.
Perhaps the pistol is unnecessary, Ellen.
The barrel did not waver.
There are people you must meet, Mr Moffat, she said.
There is time enough for that, Ellen. The dwarf, eyes
darting hither and yon, continued. I would prefer to spend a
few days examining the phenomenon.
Maccabi finally tired of my efforts to rise and helped me
to a sitting position. A few moments passed before I was able
to speak.
Very well, Professor. I am at your disposal. It seems I am
incapable of flight in any case.
I began a coughing fit that I thought might ruin all their
plans.

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The bed was uncomfortable, or I felt uncomfortable in it, for

it was not mine. The giant mute had been summoned by some
means or other to the underground room and had carried me
pick-a-back into the house, up the staircase, and onto the bed
in which Edgar Allan had died. In truth, I was not so inca-
pacitated as to have needed this assistance, but it suited me
to appear to be so. All the same, it took more than a few
minutes and several unsuccessful attempts to set foot on
the floorboards. Moving silently was also difficult; stifling the
grunts of pain as I moved required considerable fortitude.
The door was locked. As I released the handle, the door
rattled with a sound like a tree trunk being battered against
it. I surmised that the behemoth Bill had been stationed to
guard against my egress. Retreating to the bed, I attempted
to consider my position. It was quite fruitless my mind
wandered to the most inconsequential matters. For example,
it occurred to me that it was strange that the landlord of the
Coble Inn and his sibling suffered both from gigantism and
an inability to speak. Of course, John Bill, former fisherman
and lately publican, had lost the power to speak after a
dreadful trauma; I wondered if his brother had ever possessed
the power of speech. The suspicion that perhaps the former
condition had been caused by an excess of consanguinity did
occur to me.
Such nugatory ramblings kept me from devising any sort
of plan of action, much less escape. The concoctions thatI had
ingested, both voluntarily and under duress, must have
affected me greatly, for I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

The hand at my throat belonged to Ellen Pardoner. The

restorative powers of sleep had had little effect against my
condition, for the start I gave was quite weak enough to con-
vince her that I was of little danger to her person. She was in
the company of Maccabi. Circumstance appeared to be con-
spiring against encountering anyone alone, save the mute. I
hoped very much indeed that this was some indication of the
trust, or lack of it, between my captors.
Can you sit up, Moffat? she asked.
My grunts were the only answer I could offer, as I demon-
strated the physical proof that I could. Perhaps my inability
to devise a stratagem for an escape was not so great a blow
after all.
Have you a drink? I managed at last.
She laughed. Are you sure youd like what we offer?
Maccabi produced a silver flask, such as a huntsman might
take with him in pursuit of the fox.
She took it from him, and took a manly draught. Maccabi
cleared his throat. Of course, Ellen might easily have taken a
prophylaxis for any drug that it might contain.
I had already taken the silver vessel.
Indeed she might, but I am past caring.
My own consumption was the equal of Miss Pardoners,
although the gasping that ensued had been entirely dissimilar
to her own short intake of breath in reaction to the cognac.
In any case, I believed Maccabi had been offering an expla-
nation for the matter of the white pawn, rather than any
warning. Evidently, they had a use for me yet.

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Whatever the restorative potential of sleep might have

been, the spirit of the grape evinced more of it. Admittedly
the gasping had inflamed my thorax somewhat, but my
mental faculties had enjoyed a most welcome amelioration.
So, I am returned from the dead. What now, Miss Par-
doner?
I cast a brief look at Maccabi: he seemed to find the floor-
boards most interesting.
You are Rudolfs, if we can keep you from the professors
laboratory table, she replied.
Rudolfs? Are we not all masters of our own destiny? I
asked.
She laughed. Who here or anywhere is not the puppet
of another?
And to what purpose? Whose is this marionette?
I made a ridiculous face and jerked my arms.
Ellen Pardoner looked down the not inconsiderable length
of her nose.
There are things you do not know. Rudolf will explain.
She was looking into the distance at some far-off possibility.
Do you really think I will have any part of some crackpot
scheme headed by a known fraud? I asked.
There is something of a pious fraud involved, Miss Par-
doner allowed.
Maccabi coughed. Perhaps we could leave you to the pro-
fessor?
My own feeling was that I was more than a match for the
dwarf in strength and cunning, if not in intellect. However,

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 EWAN LAWRIE

even such allies as these two might be, I thought, were at least
temporarily of use.
So? When cometh the hosannas and palm-fronds?
I almost touched the raven-shaped bell pull, but Miss Par-
doner slapped my hand away from it.
Quite so, I sneered. Indeed, it seems I am more valuable
than a reporter. I am giddy with pride at so high an estima-
tion of my worth.
What is it you want? I can send Maccabi, she offered.
I was somewhat taken aback that she had allowed me to
isolate them so easily. There must have been some triumph
visible in my expression, for she added, In fact, we shall both
go, the more quickly to attend to your desires.
Forbearing to mention that I was in no fit state to take
literal advantage of such an offer, I merely requested some
broth and bread.

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 Chapter Fifty-one

They left. The two did indeed make a handsome pair. Even
so, it was plain to see that, of late, Maccabi adopted the
moon-calf manner much less often in the ladys presence. I
stared at the ceiling, counting cracks as numerous as a crones
wrinkles, hoping that some peace might engender the tiniest
inkling of a plan. It was not to be so. The swinging of the
door on its protesting hinges presaged the damnable dwarfs
entrance in the most bumptious manner: Moffat! Does it feel
strange! Anothers skin? Or your own? The tingle of electric-
ity fills you, does it? Are you animated by the vital spark?
His enthusiasm was giving me a headache to accompany
the pain in my thoracic region.
No, I replied and attempted to reassume a supine posi-
tion, in the hope of feigning sleep sufficiently well to rid
myself of the pest.
Needless to say, respite was not so easily come by. The
midget withdrew a miniature wooden mallet from a pocket
in his frock coat. Despite his earlier deriding of Leareds
invention, the gutta-percha contraption was draped around

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 EWAN LAWRIE

his neck like some badge of office. He made no use of this,

however, contenting himself merely with a manic tapping of
various joints and limbs, all the while muttering remarkable
or astounding as each word took his fancy.
The man must have been possessed of the most overween-
ing conceit to have believed that he had truly brought a man
back from the dead. Resurrection was as foolish a concept as
a trip to the moon.
Finally, the dwarf had garnered sufficient information or
merely tired of its gathering for he secreted the gavel-like
object about his person, clasped his hands behind his back
and began pacing the room. It seemed he was rehearsing
some lecture to be presented to some body academic at some
future time. Given the content and the rambling nature of its
delivery, that future seemed far off indeed.
In fact, I heard only snatches of it. The simulation of sleep
translated itself into an intermittent dozing and the profes-
sors words intermingled with dreams that seemed no more
bizarre than any event that had thus far come to pass in
Gibbous House.
While I dreamed of floating in some ill-defined body of
water, the midget evoked the names of Galvani and Faraday,
promising that his work would be accepted as both culmina-
tion and revelation of the true purposes of these men. At
some point he passed into the realms of theology: he cried out
to Rosenkreuz to acknowledge him as his true interpreter. I
was just near enough to the surface of the Lethe to reflect that

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Science and Religion, whether in collision or collusion, was a

dangerous combination.
The mouth of the whale was closing over me when I
awoke with a start. I should have laughed had I not been
fighting for my life. For some reason, the dwarf had pulled a
chair up to the side of the bed and was attempting to stifle
me with a bolster. Shoving him away with as much force as I
could muster, I bellowed, Are you mad, sir? Have you not
just performed the marvellous feat of reanimation on my own
self? Do you think to murder me now?
He had the look of a sulking child. I had it in mind to try
again.
It cost me a great deal to get myself upright and throw him
out of the room. I followed him, since the door might be
re-secured later and no giant sentinel stood without. After an
initial, vain attempt to pursue him down the stairs, I con-
tented myself with following him at slightly more than
invalid pace to the dining room. As he passed through the
doors, I heard raised voices emerging from that room. By the
time I had made my way there, a civilised company of not
three, but four persons was there to greet me.
A man as tall as myself stood next to Maccabi, who was
an inch or two taller than the both of us. He was as dark as
Jedediah was blond, and dressed in quality cloth, all of it
black save the cotton of his shirt. He was a handsome-look-
ing gentleman. He raised his eyebrows at Ellen, Jedediah and
his half-brother, then held out a hand to me. Rudolf, Rudolf...

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 EWAN LAWRIE

Jedermann, why not? I am pleased to make your acquain-

tance once again.
Again?
I had thought you quite cured of the mania, last time we
met, he said.
So he had, and there was no mystery as to the means by
which such a man might have convinced the Medical Super-
intendent of Edinburghs Model Asylum to release a man
whom he knew to be either mad or a murderer.
The professor seemed unable to stand still in his half-
brothers presence, now scuttling to the long board, now
walking over to stare at something most compelling in the
wainscoting.
Get us all something for our throats, Enoch, I said.
He gave a movement of the shoulders as though trying to
shake off something unpleasant that had fallen from the sky.
Port? he asked.
Miss Pardoner, naturally, replied in the affirmative. Mac-
cabi nodded his assent. Rudolf Jedermann uttered the word
Magenwasser!
The dwarf seemed hard put to control a cringe. I myself
felt a flutter, but only at the memory of the taste of the foul
schnapps. Perhaps my feelings were all too visible, for I was
presented with a glass of port.
The stranger drew himself to his full height, lifted his tum-
bler and declaimed Zum Wohl!
A snigger escaped me as I saw the self-same ritual repeated
in miniature by Enoch. He must have been looking at me,

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

although it was hard to tell with his eyes so slit-like. There

was room enough for hatred to seep forth, however. The
taller Jedermann looked at me expectantly: I raised my glass
and sipped a little of the ruby liquid.
Rudolf turned to his half-brother after the briefest of
glances at Miss Pardoner.
Has he been told?
What should he be told? asked the midget.
Without taking his eyes from the professor, Rudolf hissed,
Tell him, Esther.
Miss Pardoner sighed. I have tried, sir. Are you sure this
is the man? He is so uncommon dull. Perhaps if you your-
self explained?
The young woman avoided my eye.
Very well. Jedermann let out a sigh of his own.
Moffat, it is a long story as old as... well. Will
you listen?
Perhaps I might, if a further port is forthcoming.
Rudolf flicked a hand toward Enoch, who recharged my
glass, spilling only a few droplets on my shoes.
Who am I, Mr Moffat? he began, although clearly expect-
ing no answer. He looked into the far distance for a moment
before continuing.
Am I the son of a European prince? Am I an imposter, able
to convince people of most unlikely truths? I come from a
family of remarkable longevity. I have told people that I
am five hundred years old. It is a useful lie. Others have used
it before.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

At this point, Miss Pardoner and the professor nodded,

clearly familiar with these words.
Are we meant to die? Three score and ten seem hardly
sufficient to learn all there is to know, dont you think? Wan-
dering and persecution? We have wandered longer than my
brother Enochs namesake, yet we are still outsiders.
He gave me a pointed look. Presumably my yawning had
irked him.
My brother is a great scholar, Mr Moffat. He believes that
resurrection is possible. I know that it is not.
The professor started, but his half-brother held up a hand
and stilled him.
He had come so close as to allow spittle to fleck my chin.
Stepping back, he took a shuddering breath. There are leg-
ends. Folk tales of most unlikely longevity in the Carpathians,
but by no means restricted to such places. These fictions are
to be encouraged, Mr Moffat. Do you know why?
I shook my head, uncertain whether I was talking to an
abject Bedlamite or the greatest mind since Da Vinci.
Imagine someone, from an ancient family perhaps, who
lives an extraordinarily long life. Not a half a millennium, no,
of course not. But, let us say, for arguments sake, one hundred
years. Two? In our scientific world, our world of investigative
experimentation, would not members of such a family
become the subjects of terrible tortures in the name of science?
You, Mr Moffat, will save such people from this fate.
Regrettably, I wasted some of the port by ejecting it
through my nostrils.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Rudolf, or whoever he might really have been, raised an

eyebrow. Oh, I do not mean my brothers ridiculous experi-
ments. A Moffat died in Edinburgh, did he not? But even so,
you are here yet.
Maccabi appeared to be examining the cornices of the
room. Miss Pardoners eyes showed white all around the iris.
The professor looked as though he believed Cain a suitable
figure for emulation.
I care not for science and proofs, Mr Moffat, he contin-
ued. In the final account, the word will do. There is no
intention in numbers, they are what they are. Would that
everything in this world were so. I live as if it were. It has
much to recommend it.
I poured my own port; the dwarf appeared to be in the grip
of some apoplexy.
The professor, having exhausted himself with his fit, col-
lapsed in a swoon. Miss Pardoner rang the cracked bell,
which this time summoned, quite unsupervised, the twin
naturals. These two bore the academic away to their credit
with the minimum of capering, just one ill-advised skip that
caused the huge dome of the professors pate to meet with the
door frame.
I had summoned some composure in the meantime and
addressed the professors half-brother.
And what purpose was there in the charade of your broth-
ers experiments?
He laughed. Why, I am going to make you famous. The

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 EWAN LAWRIE

resurrected man. The true secret of the strange longevity

enjoyed by some.
I could make no sense of his words and he knew it.
You will be presented in society. Fted at expositions. You
will, in short order, be the most notorious man in the world.
And then you, and I, will be exposed as a fraud.
To what possible end?
The end is the end. An end to prying into certain parties
circumstances. When a lie is so much more credible than the
truth, it is invariably taken as such, you see.
Do you think I will go along with this nonsense?
I cleared my nostrils of a few remaining drops of port.
The Model Asylum is still a lively concern. He looked
with disdain at the reddish liquid spattered by his feet.
What of it? I made to grab his shirt-front, but he eluded
me.
I paid a great deal for copies of certain... case histories.
It would have been beneath me to ask precisely what
he meant.
Then you know that I am cured.
Still feeling the rigours of the professors mad attempt to
reanimate someone not actually dead, I sat in a chair at the
head of the table. He followed. He towered over my seated
form and said in a voice filled with sand and glue, Come now,
we both know how Moffat escaped the chains of lunacy.
In that case, how can I be of use? I am no resurrected
corpse. Bile rose in my throat.
I did not pay so much for some case histories. Specious

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

reports on medical research, death certificates all of these

could and can be bought should one have enough money. I
mean to present you before a select group in Vienna; once my
proposal is accepted you will accompany me on a grand tour.
It will convince no one of anything, I said.
Of course not, but I mean to discredit others as well as
myself.
His eyes glittered. A man excited by the prospect of de-
stroying others and preserving himself.
Forgive me, but I still do not understand.
The followers of the Rosy Cross, the philosophers, the
adepts; they all see through a glass darkly, he gave a short,
bitter laugh, but still they see. I mean to use you to close their
darkling window on a world they should never have glimpsed.
I said nothing, believing the man almost as mad as his half-
brother.

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 Chapter Fifty-two

Rudolf Jedermanns self-possession returned, summoned by

an interrogative cough from Maccabi.
Ah, Herr Jedermann. What is to become of Gibbous House?
His composure was not so firmly fixed, since he turned on
Jedediah, his brow close to touching Maccabis own. What?
he bellowed. This palace of infinite varieties? This carbuncle?
This monstrosity? I do not care!
Jedermanns head advanced with each outburst and Mac-
cabi was soon pinned against the long board. It might well
have been the second occasion on which I had truly witnessed
someone being browbeaten.
Gibbous House is mine, is it not? Maccabi, I shall decide
its fate, I interjected.
Miss Pardoners customary snort preceded any reply from
Maccabi or Jedermann.
You will do, Mr Moffat, said Rudolf Jedermann, as you
are instructed. Free will, in any case, is an illusion. Even fools
can stumble on some truths, on occasion.
Finding at least the second part of this statement not

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

incompatible with my own reading of the situation, I con-

cluded that any protest would scarcely be material.
Moving close to Maccabi, I clapped him hard on the shoul-
der, saying, Jedediah, grasp that bell and summon us some
provender, I find that having been dead is quite a stimulus to
the appetite.
I turned toward Jedermann. Unless, of course, I am bound
for the Inquisition before nightfall?
Some impediment required clearing from his throat. He
answered, We will depart soon enough.
The familiar dissonance of the hand bell somehow man-
aged to ensure the arrival of Mrs Gonderthwaite in less time
than it ought to have taken her to come from the kitchen.
Dinner? I said.
It is barely five in the evening, Mr Moffat, Mrs Gonder-
thwaite asserted.
Quite how she achieved the appearance of looking down
her nose at me despite being a good hands breadth the
shorter I could not say.
Jedermann, a smile on the lips, if not in the eye, said, I
think we might wait for Enochs recovery. Well be five for
eight, Mrs Gonderthwaite.
Which serendipitous rhyme proved that if the man had not
set foot within Gibbous House previously he was conversant
with its household.
Mrs Gonderthwaite departed; we three males looked at each
other as if expecting someone else to begin some interchange.
Miss Pardoner clapped twice and said, Cards, gentlemen!

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 EWAN LAWRIE

We repaired to a smaller table with an appropriate number

of lower chairs. This ensemble was situated in the corner
furthest from the likely entry point of any comestibles. The
seats were comprehensively padded and the fabric, though
fine, was as faded as a spinsters looks. Gilt had been rubbed
from the wood by friction at some long time past, judging by
the dust on that which remained. The four of us sat: Miss
Pardoner with her back to the very corner of the room and
thus with a good view of the dining room in its entirety. I sat
opposite and felt the less comfortable with my back to any
potential ingress or egress. The door through to the horrors
of the taxidermists lair was within my sight line, but that was
all. Maccabi sat at my left hand, Jedermann to my right.
Miss Pardoner opened a drawer in the table itself and
produced a bundle that consisted of a yellow silk kerchief.
She eyed me as she undid the knot. From this cloth she pro-
duced a tired-looking deck of cards. The woman smiled at
those around the table and proceeded to deal the cards face
up into two distinct piles. To her right she seemed at first to
be collecting the deuces and treys, as in the other stock she
placed a seven, a king, an ace, a knave and a nine before
placing anything other than a low-pipped card to her left. At
that it was merely a six of spades. Finally the cards were all
apportioned and I had noted that all suits from two to six
were at her left hand and the remainder at her right. She
opened the drawer once more and swept the supply of lower
value cards into it.
It seemed that a round of Speculation was not in prospect.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Well, gentlemen. In honour of our esteemed visitor, a nod

here to Rudolf Jedermann, I propose a game of Schafskopf
or Skat, if you prefer.
The fellow so honoured let out a sigh, rather than a whoop
of excitement.
I do not know the game, Ellen, I said.
We are four; one must sit out, each in his turn. You shall
be first, Mr Moffat, and she began to jumble the remaining
cards in an inexpert fashion. She dealt out every card, ten to
each of the three players and the remaining two into some-
thing she called the Skat.
Jedermann picked up his cards and threw them down
immediately.
These are not correct. The suits... He became silent.
Herr Jedermann, Maccabis voice was oily, it is quite
simple...
He pointed out the equivalents, mentioning acorns, bells
and leaves, whilst allowing that the count would recognise
the hearts at least.
They began the bidding, or reizen, as Jedermann termed it.
I paid no attention whatsoever, leaving a reverie about mur-
dering the three of them only when actual play began. This
was also difficult to follow. Contrary to my expectation,
Maccabi laid the first card; Miss Pardoner followed accord-
ing to the clock, which was less surprising. Jedermann played
the diamond jack on the led hearts and took the trick for his
own. The hand was played out and subsequently the tricks
and the cards therein were perused by each player. Then there

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 EWAN LAWRIE

was a chattering of jackdaws as unfamiliar words were inter-

spersed with arguments over the value of the tricks won. At
no time did anyone note the scores claimed.
Miss Pardoner gathered up the cards, passed them to
Jedermann and came to stand behind my chair.
I shall help you with the game, Mr Moffat, she said. I
supposed that by rights Maccabi ought to have taken his turn
to be a spectator.
The cards were dealt. I understood even less of the bidding
with sight of the cards being bid on. It was with some surprise
that I came to realise that, as the winning bidder, I was to
begin play proper. Miss Pardoners hand lay lightly on my
shoulder, near the neck. Each wrong selection was followed
by a fierce pinching of her fingers on my person. I suffered
some degree of pain before selecting a card that met with her
approval. The game proceeded with some discomfort for me.
Clearly, Miss Pardoner was a player of some skill as I won
that particular hand. This did not mean that I understood the
jackdaw chatter any better than before.
It was with some relief that I learned that Miss Pardoner
would not be assisting my play thereafter. Jedermann left the
table with speed and made for the long board. He did not
return with any refreshment for the remaining players.
This time during the bidding, which I began with one of
something, Miss Pardoner queried, Will you go? There was
a short pause, and thereafter, One more?
Ah... t-two, I stuttered.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

No, will you go? Again she waited and repeated, One
more.
In fact, Maccabi was at turn to bid; I mentioned this. A
kick from a sharp-pointed shoe followed this observation,
and Miss Pardoner hissed, Will... you... go?
Of course not, I said. I had no intention of going with
Jedermann Senior, though I admired her efforts to disguise
her question.
Maccabi said, simply, Three.
The game finished after one more round, Jedermann
declining to rejoin it. Perhaps Miss Pardoner was the winner,
but it might well have been myself, or even Maccabi, for all
I had understood of the play. The young woman and Maccabi
engaged in some chatter concerning Sevastapol, remarking
that the Turks owed the British yet another favour for hav-
ing routed the Russian bear. I was tempted to intervene at
this point and enquire why Her Majesty should aid one
savage over another but I doubted that the company
would have welcomed the interjection. I found their interest
quite remarkable.
Jedermann appeared to be a practised drinker, refilling his
glass at the long board more than severally and patrolling the
length of the dining room without the slightest misstep.
The professor and dinner arrived in quick and cacopho-
nous succession. The former barrelled through the door in a
state of noisy inebriation, a bottle of spirits in each hand. The
latter made an entry by the simian sons of Mrs Gonderth-
waite that surpassed any they had previously attempted.

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 EWAN LAWRIE

One or other of the boys was seated atop an exquisite, if

battered, silver trolley. It was something more suited to the
transportation of delicate patisserie from kitchen to dining
room in Verreys of Regent Street than a hirsute youth. He
himself was carrying a huge tureen of silver similar in quality
and condition. A piece of flatware was balanced on his head,
something the lowness of his brow facilitated. The noise was
occasioned by the rattling of the silverware he carried and the
cutlery in his pockets, which were being agitated rather
more than necessary due to the rate at which the whole
commotion was propelled into the room by his siblings
efforts. The meal was served before any of us had taken a
seat, each boy managing to produce a relatively clean porce-
lain soup bowl from about their respective persons.
Yet again, the food was of delightful quality, as though
Mrs Gonderthwaite felt a need to compensate for the manner
of her foods delivery with her efforts in its production. It was
most diverting that the broth, once tasted, was revealed to be
a particularly fine Palestine soup. I hoped that I myself would
prove to have as little to do with Jerusalem as the artichokes
from which it had been made.
The remainder of the meal passed in a pandemonium of
noise and fine viands, my own favourite being a very fine
pheasant. Whence it had come, I had not the faintest idea, but
it was both plump and succulent. Best of all, my teeth were
not inconvenienced by any shot. When the last dish and knife
had been removed, Maccabi bade the professor to remain
seated and went himself to dispense the port. The professor

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

appeared incapable of walking the short distance to the long

board, in any case.
Du! Maccabi! Warsht ner stinkender Arschloch! The
professor was, indeed, drunk. He fixed me with a baleful,
rolling eye.
It ish not a game. Serioush eksh-esp Sciensch!
Rudolf laughed. Miss Pardoner shot him a look containing
a little less respect than customary. The dwarf spat on the floor
and busied himself with his drink. His temper remained hot.
His half-brother looked at me. Well be leaving around
midday, Moffat.
Will we? I asked.
Most assuredly, came the reply. You are, of course, most
welcome to gather any portables to bring with you. Surely
there are things you would like to bring? Things portable and
convertible, eh?
He laughed long and hard this time. At last he said between
wheezes, Youll be ready at noon.
The professor was not a soporific drunk. He continued to
wriggle in his chair, muttering, whispering and occasionally
shouting. I sensed that Miss Pardoner, at least, felt embarrass-
ment on his behalf, though his own half-brother did not.
Maccabi had the look of someone lured into sitting with a
senile uncle through the bait of an attractive cousin. Conver-
sation, for whatever reason, was desultory.
By eleven Miss Pardoner and Maccabi had retired to
their chambers, and the two Jedermanns and I seemed locked
in a relatively silent contest to be the last to take to their bed.

430
 EWAN LAWRIE

Eventually Rudolf took a gracious leave. I, too, took my own

shortly after, choosing not to remain alone with the drunken
dwarf. Perhaps I should have done so.

431
 Chapter Fifty-three

A last look at the repeater by the light of the moon revealed

the hour to be three. Sleep came as it often does at the
moment at which I had despaired of it. The blessed relief
was undisturbed by dreams and seemed all the shorter for
it. I awoke sweating and coughing, although the smoke
coming into the room from under the door was wispy and
hardly dense.
The door was not locked. Swinging the door wide enabled
me to consider how to penetrate the mound of furniture
blocking my egress. It might have been possible to wait for
the fire to burn through it, but it occurred to me that a chok-
ing death would have been my fate long before it could do
so. Putting a shoulder against the rear of a large armoire
proved nugatory. Perhaps it was full. I found it strange that
the efforts required in moving such an enormous and weighty
piece had not disturbed my slumber.
The smoke had become a little thicker: it was an irritant
to the throat but no more. The room itself, however, was
hot, and although I was still in my dshabill, a sheen of

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 EWAN LAWRIE

perspiration covered every inch of my exposed skin.

Nevertheless, I began to dress, reasoning that it were better
to force the flames to consume a few layers of wool and
cotton before my own flesh.
The sheen had become a flood by the time my boots were
on. I smashed the small window with an elbow. A few bright
flames licked at the edges of the door frame, although the
armoire itself still seemed to resist the conflagration. Head
and shoulders through the empty window frame, I looked
downward. There seemed no hand- or foothold to facilitate
a gingerly executed descent down the wall itself. In addition,
it seemed I would have to remove my topcoat, as I was on the
point of becoming wedged in the aperture. Worst of all, the
window looked out onto the stalls of the yard, but there was
no sign of straw, nor hay, nor anything at all to break what
was sure to be a precipitous fall. The remaining glass fell
inward as I jerked out of the opening. My topcoat fell in a
heap to the floor as I shrugged it off.
The varnished wood of the armoire was blistering now,
whilst the flames themselves had nibbled at the edges of the
piece. Picking up the porcelain from beside the bed, I threw
it to the floor in as petulant a gesture as to which I had ever
been provoked. The bourdeloue, thankfully empty, landed
safely on my topcoat. Despite the lack of satisfaction at de-
stroying something, it was pleasing to have some hope aroused
in my breast by the glimmer of a stratagem for escape.
Having dropped the topcoat out of the window, I watched
it fall gracelessly and with some momentum, it being of

433
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

quality material. The bedclothes followed in quick succes-

sion, all a-bundle. I was grateful that I had chosen the least
luxurious of possible accommodations, since the mattress
from the rude cot followed these in its turn with only a mod-
icum of force required to ensure its passage through the
narrow opening. The armoire was truly alight now. I pushed
the cot to the wall beneath the window. The bed enabled me
to clamber feet first through the window facing inward. The
conflagration was making alarming progress across the
room. I hung by my hands from the window frame for a few
moments, contemplating the long fall. Perhaps my resolve
hardened before the flame touched my fingers, but in any
event I loosed my grip.
Despite my preparations, the landing left me a little
stunned. It was some moments before I felt I might safely
move. That I did not do so was entirely due to the knife at my
throat. Culliss grimy hand was wrapped around the haft and
his ill-cared-for teeth loomed above it. His breath smelled as
though he had been chewing sheep-droppings to sweeten it.
Divvent think I divven na! he said.
Judging silence the best course, I kept mine.
It was ee. Yiz killed worlad!
Indeed, I had; but I was at a loss to know how he knew it,
since the policeman, before his unfortunate demise, had been
unable to discover the identity of the murderer. There was a
sharp pain and I felt blood trickle down my neck. Cullis col-
lapsed, insensible, upon my person. Shoving him aside I stood
and saw the rock in the dog-boys hand.

434
 EWAN LAWRIE

Well done, Job Catchpole! I am indebted to you.

The boy stared mutely for a few seconds, then knelt to tend
to the wound in Culliss scalp.
He looked up briefly. Go, he said.
Flames were visible through the window from which I had
dropped. The servants entrance was a matter of a few steps
to my right. The handle on the door was hot to the touch.
Skirting the building took no more than a minute or so,
even though there was some stiffness of the joints after my
fall. There were no flames apparent from the outside. Finding
the main entrance locked from within, I used the lions head
bell pull more in hope than expectation. The summons was
answered as quickly as ever it had been during my stay at
Gibbous House. The door was opened by Miss Pardoner,
whose unfashionable coiffure was enlivened by the effect on
it of the ladys having recently enjoyed some energetic activ-
ity. Combined with the flush in her cheeks, it gave her an
alluring look.
Quickly! she gasped. The house is afire.
I refrained from comment, feeling that the singed aspect
of some of my attire, not to mention my hair, was response
enough.
She grasped my arm and dragged me into the entrance-
way.
Rudolf! He is with Enoch. Below. He must be saved. She
looked me in the eye with such imprecation as led me to think
she truly believed some altruistic spark glowed somewhere
within me.

435
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Ill need money; youll make sure you have it when

I return.
She gave a look as though she had just smelled
Culliss breath.
Youll get your reward, she said.
On looking up at the gallery, it was obvious that the wall-
paper hall of mirrors was curling with the heat. The
hand-painted trompe loeil mirror concealing the access to
the bedrooms had been the first to suffer the effects of the
conflagration. It seemed the fire set outside my own bedroom
door had thus far been confined to the apartments of the
members of the household proper. As I passed through into
the dining room, I could have sworn I heard the crack of
heated glass.
The refectory table resembled a culinary battlefield, in as
much as wine spilled like blood and broken vittles covered
the surface of the table like cavalrymen at Balaclava. I
reflected that I had surely struck my head in my fall from the
window, if such nonsense could enter it at so inappropriate a
time. At the head of the table, apparently insensible from
drink, was the giant, Bill. The noise emanating from his
gaping mouth was sure indication that he lived yet.
The entrance in the inglenook fireplace was open, though
the underground passage looked as dark as ever. I passed
between the Golem and the dybbuk and wished for a light. A
familiar hellish glow infused the red sandstone of the passage
walls, and passing Heathfield Cadwalladers message I felt a
brief queasiness in my stomach. The light from the chamber

436
 EWAN LAWRIE

containing the infernal machine was not so bright as on my

previous visit, and the Ethiops were conspicuously absent.
The moving parts of the machine seemed sluggish, as though
it were tired or drugged. As a consequence, the great chamber
was a little quieter, with relative silence prevailing as the great
wheels paused at the apex of each rotation. A faint screaming
could be heard at these moments.
I turned left, skirting the sandstone. It was still devilish hot,
although clearly the machine was not producing so much cal-
orific power as before. It seemed advisable to keep my distance
from the mechanical Leviathan. The sandstone wall at first
followed the contours of the machine, running parallel at a
distance of some yards from it. After some twenty-five yards,
the wall veered to the left, opening out into a vast and empty
cavern. In the opposite wall there was an opening, and a faint
light emanated from it. The screaming had become louder, but
the words were indiscernible and the voice unrecognisable.
To my initial relief, the further I put the machine behind
me, the cooler it became. By the time I had reached the central
point of the huge cavern, my breath was visible in the air. I
shivered, and of course it was cold, but I could not account
for the icy feeling in my spine. By the time I reached the open-
ing, my teeth were clacking like a dowagers needles. The
screaming voice was Enochs, the language indecipherable. I
crossed the portal and felt nauseous at once.
In the centre of a small chamber was the kind of table atop
which I had previously been strapped. Now Jedermann
Major was tightly bound to it with familiar-looking leather

437
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

strapping. He was not responsible for the screaming. His

half-brother gibbered and capered, seemingly oblivious to my
presence. The dwarfs wing collar was in the process of taking
flight from his person. His hair, such as remained, appeared
to have been affected by some of his beloved experiments
with electrical current. One shoe was missing and most
remarkable of all was the evidence of his excitement protrud-
ing from the front of his trews. Perhaps the shortness of his
legs contributed to its striking appearance. Evidently the
constant movement of his head and darting of his eyes had
effected the parlous state of his shirt collar. Then the twisting
of his neck and head halted. His gaze fixed upon my person.
Moffat! was the only intelligible utterance among the
stream of what I presumed to be invective.
The dwarf leaped at me, fingers extended toward my eyes.
His fingernails drew blood from my cheek as I stumbled back-
ward against the examination table. The homunculus straddled
my chest and, revolted by the proximity of his most private
parts, I threw him off with a great heave. Such was his rage
or madness that he was totally undeterred by the blow he
received from the corner of the table upon his pate. From
somewhere about his person, he produced a large knife. In his
tiny hand it appeared like Domenico Angelos smallsword.
Thankfully he had never studied in the Soho School of Arms.
The razor I took from my pocket made short work of the
tendons in his wrist and the knife fell to the sandstone floor.
The pain had a calming effect on the midget, the frantic
movement of his head subsided and a keening noise replaced

438
 EWAN LAWRIE

the crazed ranting. A boot to the temple put a stop to this last,
for a time.
Releasing Jedermann from his bonds, I awaited the
expected effusions of gratitude.
You fool, Moffat! he said. I needed to know!
He seemed more likely to be extracting information from
you, when I arrived, I opined.
He spat; most likely the gag had been uncomfortable.
Why knock him senseless, man? I need to know if they
are close?
Who? It seemed a reasonable question.
Those in the shadows, les eminences grises, those who
look for such as we.
It made little sense to me. Perhaps the insanity was a
family trait.
Close to what? I offered, out of courtesy only.
To me, to you, to our plans. Where there are those who
are othered, there are those who would see them gone.
I reflected that his feelings of persecution might have some
basis in fact, if any scintilla of truth existed in his strange tale.
Nonetheless I wasted no time in assuring him that I would
play no further part in his scheme, as I could sooner foresee
my end in gaol than in any successful conclusion to his plan.
Whether you will or no, I cannot be caught here in
Gibbous House. Not by them. For the first time he looked
truly fearful.
Indeed, we should leave. The house above is afire.
He held me back as I turned to leave. Pointing to his

439
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

unconscious sibling, he said, Bring him. I need to know what

he told them.
He is your brother, sir, carry him yourself.

440
 Chapter Fifty-four

A wait of some minutes ensued in the dining room in front

of the fireplace. Eventually Rudolf struggled into the room
with his neck wreathed in the dwarfs disproportionately long
arms. Loosening this grip by means of the tips of fingers and
thumbs, he relieved himself of his burden. Enoch must still
have been insensible, for his fall to the floor provoked no
reaction, not even a groan or exhalation of air. There was no
sign of Bill: I suspected he might have been in the grip of the
drunkards punishment namely the nausea and headache
that truly deserved a name of their own.
A judiciously applied kick to the supine form of the pro-
fessor roused him from his slumbers. He seemed more or
less himself, in as much as he was not raving. Neither was
he silent, however, being given over to a mumbling that might
have been some arcane prayer, or simply cursing under his
breath. His physical wellbeing was well attested to by the
alacrity of his arrival at the doorway out of the dining room
into the vestibule. That is to say, he left both his elder sibling
and myself in his wake.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Rudolf Jedermann bestowed a half-smile upon me as

Enoch squealed in pain upon seizing the door knob. I would
have hoped that an intelligent man would have taken this as
warning not to open the door itself, however we all three
were thrown backward by the blast of hot air that ensued
once the foolish midget had done so. None of us was so dull
as not to realise the futility of making our egress via that
route, therefore we scampered pell-mell through the rooms
leading to the library, the professor smashing a few of the
vitrines in the vivarium as he passed, whether out of concern
for the slithering creatures within or for some other less altru-
istic motive, I did not know.
The French doors at the end of the library were already
open. Framed within the opening were Maccabi, Mrs
Gonderthwaite and Miss Pardoner. The latter had a stiff arm
around the sharp shoulders of the wraith-like housekeeper,
who seemed to be racked with pain or, indeed, grief. Miss
Pardoner merely looked uncomfortable. Maccabi looked, as
ever, like a blond if handsome dolt. That this company
parted before us like mist was as well for them, since the three
of us were travelling at quite a lick, for fear of encountering
the lick of any pursuing flames.
Are they out? Mrs Gonderthwaite enquired in a voice like
the bellow of a birthing cow.
I was so put out by this most uncustomary outburst that
I quite forgot to wonder what on earth she was talking
about. Naturally, Miss Pardoner clarified matters. The twins,
her boys!

442
 EWAN LAWRIE

I havent seen them, I said.

The professor broke off from praying or swearing, which-
ever it had been.
I told those boys, I told them! Set the fire, do not stop to
admire it!
This last word was somewhat strangled in his throat, as
Miss Gonderthwaites hands were firmly clamped around it.
It was Maccabi who released the housekeepers grip on the
professors person, whereupon the woman seemed truly to
become the ghostly figure she resembled, lapsing into a soft
keening and trembling as if on the point of being blown away
on the next gust of wind.
We all stood on the flagged area outside the library, shiv-
ering. The weather was unseasonably cool. I could hear a
clacking, like a chattering of arthritic crickets. If we found it
cool, the Ethiops surrounding the terrace were feeling a
mighty chill, their teeth being the source of the noise.
Looking to the professor proved of little use, as he was
intent on massaging the bruising to his neck. I spoke instead
to Maccabi. What do they want?
How should I know, Moffat? came the less than help-
ful reply.
Are they dangerous? The voice belied his status as
Europes foremost mountebank, and I suppressed a snicker at
Rudolf Jedermanns discomfiture.
Miss Pardoner gave a bellow and a series of grunts and
clicks. The tallest of the men enunciated carefully: We need
quitclaim, an affidavit.

443
 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Whatever for? I asked.

For reply, he opened a leather pouch, about the size of a
small bag of flour, and tipped its contents on the ground.
The gold glinted in what meagre sun penetrated the cloud.
A quitclaim is for property, Maccabi said.
And what have we been, if not owned by him! He thrust
a long finger toward the dwarf, who had recovered himself
enough to flinch at this.
But you are not slaves, nonetheless, Maccabi said. I will
sign an affidavit stating your entitlement to the coin.
Will you indeed, Jedediah? I asked, more for forms sake,
I confess. Any tussle with the Ethiops would most likely have
ended badly for ourselves.
Best you fetch pen and paper then, Maccabi, I continued,
and the lout set about procuring these requirements in the
library behind us. He returned more rapidly than he left, with
a few pages torn from some invaluable tome, a pen with a
dripping nib and a singed air about him.
The affidavit was drafted and signed and the twenty or so
blackamoors left with rather more dignity than was left to us.
Whither they went, I do not know, but sincerely I wished
them luck of their gold and their affidavit, for I doubted
either policeman or footpad would care a fig for the latter.
A loud noise came from behind us. To me at least it was
not entirely unexpected I had seen enough of the effects
of fire on buildings in London. We ran around the build-
ing, all save the professor giving the perimeter the widest pos-
sible berth. On reaching the drive before the entrance, Miss

444
 EWAN LAWRIE

Pardoner and the professor gave a cry. The dome that gave
the house its informal sobriquet of Gibbous House had fallen
in. Every turret, spire and tower had suffered a similar fate.
The professor screamed and ran into the burning ruin.
I looked at Rudolf Jedermann. He replied succinctly to
my unspoken question with one of his own: Am I my broth-
ers keeper?
Maccabi started after the foolhardy midget. Miss Pardoner
held him back, saying, Three deaths are enough for that place.
I forbore to point out that by my own reckoning, at least
considerably more than three had met their ends, either
directly or indirectly, due to the existence of Gibbous House.
Besides, I cared not a whit for any of it, or any of them.
Clearly Miss Pardoner held the blond Jew in some regard or
affection, else she would have allowed him his grand gesture
of saving the professor.
Are the horses safe? I asked of no one in particular.
Why? Rudolf Jedermann enquired.
I am taking my leave, sir.
You do not have mine to take it, Moffat, he said, stepping
in front of me.
I gave him the bare-knucklers last punch, knocking him
back with the full force of my forehead. The next words he
spoke came from the mud: We are not finished with you
yet, Moffat!
I silenced him with a satisfying boot to his ribs.
Youll leave us the carriage, Moffat? Miss Pardoner was
as civil as she had ever been to me.

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 GIBBOUS HOUSE

Ill be taking a horse and a few things from the gatehouse.

You may do as you please, Ellen.
A coughing fit seized me, but no hand reached out to
soothe. Not even that of Ellen Pardoner. All eyes save mine
had turned to the ruin of the cupola. The coughing ceased
and I turned to look at it myself. It resembled nothing so
much as a boiled egg after being thoroughly breakfasted on:
jagged edges pointing upwards, their convergence providing
the barest clue to the erstwhile perfection of design and pur-
pose. For lunatic as the imbroglio of styles and design of the
houses entirety had been, the dome itself had been perfect,
even beautiful. Now its relict was the backdrop for the last
rantings of a madman, for leaping nimbly from joist to
charred-and-burning joist was Professor Enoch Jedermann,
once of Vienna, Leyden and Siena Universities, late of Berlin.
His shouting was for once in English, which given his recent
behaviours was surprising. More surprising still was the fact
that he was naked.
There will be no peace for you, Rudolf. Not for you, nor
your Jezebel.
Miss Pardoner coloured quite becomingly at this last, and
I regretted the lack of further opportunities to be the cause of
her blushes myself. However, it did reveal that only two of
the three were aware of the true relationship between Ellen
and Rudolf.
Maccabi! Viking Jew! You were mine and whose are you
now? You have been the imposters catamite, I know it!
A laugh escaped me at this; Maccabi himself looked

446
 EWAN LAWRIE

embarrassed, while Miss Pardoner looked at me with fasci-

nation. Jedermann senior was shaking his head.
Moffat! the mannikin screamed the name. Perhaps he
had trod on a particularly warm timber. Then he gave a mani-
acal laugh as chilling as any heard in Bedlam.
Moffat! he went on. You are no more Moffat than I!
Murderer, pander, thief, fratricide! I shall shout your name so
that your friends may know thee for the evil thou art!
Whilst I was reflecting on his strange diction, and who,
precisely, these friends might have been, the dwarf fell
screaming into the burning interior.
I left them all in front of the burning wreck, waving a
cheery hand from astride the best of the remaining horses.
Mrs Gonderthwaite lifted a listless hand by way of farewell.
As for the others, save Ellen, they did not even glance in my
direction. Miss Pardoner looked me in the eye and said, The
Americas! Ill find you there. I nodded to her as I rode away.
On removing the portables I had secreted earlier in the
gatehouse, I set fire to it, which permitted Heathfield Cadwal-
lader at the last a cremation of sorts, if not a Christian
burial. A vast column of smoke was rising above the
mainhouse: as I turned my horse in the direction of Alnwick,
I thought I might take Ellen at her word, board a ship at
Newcastle and try my luck across the ocean. South or north,
it was nothing to me; both sounded an ideal destination for
a man of my singular talents.

447
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